


Ties of Blood and Fire

by BlueCichlid



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Future Fic, Jon and Sansa are siblings not romantic, Multiple Major Character Deaths, Some pairings are from the story's past, Some pairings are not healthy realtionships, Trigger warning for sexual violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-01-24 14:16:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 41
Words: 148,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1608164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueCichlid/pseuds/BlueCichlid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a Westeros slowly rebuilding from the wars, Jon Snow struggles with his past and withdraws into despair at the Wall.  Meanwhile his estranged sister Sansa fights to maintain the peace at the court of Aegon VI, the dangerous and unpredictable Dragon King.  Jon comes to understand that his battles are not over, and that the future of Westeros hangs in the balance ... but is it too late?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Fight on the Wall

**Author's Note:**

> Please be warned that the story does go to some very dark places, although there is a slow build on some of the unpleasant stuff. The story explores the futures of Jon and Sansa, and deals with PTSD and abuse. Don't expect nice relationship fluff and happy ever after for much of the story. The ending is bittersweet.
> 
> Note: I have included a Jon Snow/Sansa Stark tag because the vast majority of people interested in the characters together search the pairings tag. However, this is not a story where they are romantically linked; they are platonic siblings. Their relationship as siblings is the central focus of this story, but readers looking for romance or smut will be disappointed. I do have a smutty Jonsa story called They Lost Their Wolves for anyone looking for that kind of content.

Seven years had passed since Daenerys Stormborn had fallen from the sky in a blaze of fire, and Jon still saw her face when he closed his eyes like the flame of a blown out candle. 

Seven years since he had died, murdered by those he had thought were his brothers, since he had been returned to life for a hopeless battle. He remembered the darkness and the cold and the grasping hands, the hunger and exhaustion of the defenders, too few and their numbers dwindling with every attack, their own lost dead risen and turned against them. He had known despair in those days that were one long night. And then the Mother of Dragons had come to him with all her armies behind her. As they fought together he had thought that his rebirth into this second life had been destined by all the prophecies and songs he had ever heard. But then she had died, and the singers said the war had been won, and he was left behind to wake and sleep and eat and prepare for the next war. Seven years. 

He walked out of the forest, approaching Drogon’s bones where they lay in the remnants of the battlefield just north of the Wall. Visarion’s shadow loomed overhead. He could have soared over the forests on dragonback if he had wished, but he preferred to walk so that he could know the land. How many years did the Others haunt these forests, he wondered, and the Night’s Watch did not know they were there? How were we all so blind to the danger? He had sworn it would never happen again. The Wall was being rebuilt under the direction of a strong Lord Commander, and it already stood three hundred feet high. When the war came again, he had sworn, they would be ready.

As he moved through the cage of Drogon’s ribs, he saw a rider approaching from the south. The boy was young, Jon saw as he drew near, and clad in the black of the Night’s Watch with the silver bandings of a squire in training. The boy was not pledged for life, then. Accepting the service of men and boys pledged only for a time had been one of Jon’s reforms. Someday this boy would return to his home in the south with tales of the Wall and the lands beyond, and the realm would be reminded of why the watch must be kept. Perhaps it would lessen the spirit of brotherhood, but Jon no longer had much faith in that, not since his once-brothers had freed him from his vows with the daggers in the dark. 

“Your highness,” the boy said. “Riders have come from the south. The Lady of Winterfell seeks to speak with you.”

For a moment, Jon had the unsettling vision of Catelyn Stark appearing to chastise him for some misdemeanour. Not that there was that much difference, he thought, between the former Lady Stark and her elder daughter. In his capacity of Regent of the North he had granted Sansa the use of the title until Rickon married, in recognition of the work she did running Winterfell. He had not expected how much it would grate on him to hear it used.

“I will send a raven and tell the Lady that I have no time to fly to Winterfell.” Not to mention that Sansa was not supposed to be at Winterfell. Their last exchange of letters had been heated, but he had made his orders clear.

“No, my lord, you misunderstand. She rode in several hours ago.” 

Jon’s jaw dropped. “She’s here?” Winterfell to the Wall was more than a two week ride in hard conditions. The way Sansa travelled it was far more likely to be over three weeks, and he could only imagine the escort she had thought necessary for the trip. Sansa did not travel light. He only hoped Sam was coping with the inundation. “At Castle Black!?” What had possessed her?

The boy cringed. “She said she would go to the top of the Wall to wait. I brought a horse --”

Jon shook his head impatiently. With a thought, he called, and felt the stirring in Visarion’s wild mind. The dragon swooped down from the sky and Jon swung himself onto the creature’s back. There was something still marvellous about riding a dragon, even after all these years. He knew he should spend more time with Visarion, although his control of the dragon was now unshakable. The spells that bound Targaryen to dragon were tenuous – no one knew for sure if they had duplicated what his ancestors had used, but there was no need to fear a loss of control with his ability to warg into the dragon’s mind. He usually allowed Visarion to fly free for days on end.

The dragon landed on top of the wall and Jon clambered down onto the ice, thankful of the high walls that guarded his landing space and prevented a slip. Even in the weak summer sunshine, the Wall was weeping and slick.

He found Sansa sitting by the edge not far away. Even through his annoyance, found himself smiling at her concept of what to wear on top of the Wall. The wind from the north was like a steel blade, sending the full skirts of her riding dress wiping behind her in a flurry of sky-blue silk. The matching cloak was doing the same, held on her only by a round silver brooch at her throat. Even her hair was sliding out of its braid, the pins that had once secured it sparkling in the sunshine behind her. She was gazing over the edge of the Wall, looking out over the wild lands beyond.

At one-and-twenty, Sana was lovely; he had to admit it, but she was all artifice and impractical fragility. He thought of Ygritte’s crooked smile and tumble of red curls, of Val striding out of the snow with Ghost at her side. How could any man think Sansa Stark is truly beautiful, if he had glimpsed Daenerys the Mother of Dragons bloody and glorious on the battlefield?

He moved to her side. A hundred feet below them, a hawk was soaring over the wreckage of the battlefield, now carpeted with flowers and masked by sapling trees. The afternoon sun shone on greenery and small summer streams flowed where five years ago the living dead had covered as far as the eye could see. The war is being forgotten, thought Jon. Perhaps it was time to send Visarion to burn the land clear again. But the green always came back to the soil so quickly. The hawk wavered in the air, then veered away north. Sansa sighed.

Jon put his hand on her shoulder when she sighed. “Were you trying …?” 

She nodded, still watching the bird fly away. “I know you think I have the gift, but I have never felt it the way that the rest of you do.” She shook her head, still watching the hawk fly away. “Maybe it would be different if I hadn’t lost Lady so soon.”

“Birds are difficult. You should practice on something easier.” A skinchanger who is afraid of their gift will never be able to use it, he thought. Jon felt her shivering. Silently, he shrugged off his thick dark cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders.

“You will get cold,” she protested.

“I don’t even feel the wind anymore.” Jon said. He waited, but she said nothing, and the silence stretched out between them. “Sansa, what are you doing here?” he asked finally. “You are supposed to be riding south.”

She stood up abruptly. Her riding boots, absurdly impractical on the wet ice, slipped underneath her and Jon reached out to catch her elbow. She twisted her fingers through her hair, trying futilely to push it out of her face. She shook her head, seeming to be grasping for words. “You cannot ask this of me,” she burst out.

Jon sighed. “Who else do I have to send who knows King’s Landing the way you do? Aegon wants me to attend his court. I need to at least send a representative to speak in my name.”

“You are the heir to the throne. Your brother is reasonable to want you to be at court until Queen Arianne gives him a son.” 

Jon sighed. “I understand that, which is why I need to send someone who knows how not to offend the southerners. You lived at court for two years, Sansa.”

“I was a hostage! You don’t understand what it was like …” she trailed off and turned away.

We all suffered in the war, he thought. And I’ve never heard that the living dead made it to King’s Landing. But he didn’t want to burden Sansa, pretty and delicate Sansa, who had probably never missed a meal or slept without a roof over her head, with the knowledge of some of the things he had seen.

“Is there anything or anyone at King’s Landing that have given you have cause to fear?” Jon waited until she slowly shook her head. A different thought occurred to him. “Is this about your husband?” He tended to forget that Sansa was still in law the wife of Tyrion Lannister, a marriage that appeared to exist solely through the exchange of polite letters carried by a knight in Tyrion’s service. (Jon suspected the man -- Pedro? – of being more enamoured of his lord’s wife than Tyrion himself was). As the Hand of the King, Tyrion would be in King’s Landing.

“No, Tyrion and I are …” she trailed off, waved her hands helplessly. “The way we have always been.”

“Just a few months, Sansa, smooth things over with Aegon and get him to understand I am needed here.” In truth, Jon had given his half-brother on the throne little thought other than to be grateful that the man’s existence meant he did not have to take the throne. He had met Aegon one, when the third Targaryen had brought the Golden Company to the Wall at the end of the battle for the dawn and taken ridership of Rheagal. His impression of his brother, his elder, had been one of youth and impatience, but reports from King’s Landing were that he had grown into a pragmatic and just ruler. Things had been testy, however, since Aegon’s son and heir had died of a fever, returning Jon to the unwelcome status of heir to the Iron Throne. Jon had refused all of his brother’s requests to attend court, and their correspondence had been increasingly antagonistic. Sending Sansa to King’s Landing in his place had seemed like an ideal solution.

“But you are not needed here, Jon. What are you doing that the Lord Commander cannot accomplish without you? You neglect your duties as Prince of the Realm and heir to the throne, you leave me to make most of your decisions as Regent of the North.” She held up her hand as he opened his mouth. “And I do make all the decisions, without much help from any of the rest of you. You fret about monsters that may not come for another eight thousand years. Six months ago Arya announced over breakfast that she has never seen a sea monster and I have not seen her since. Rickon is hunting aurochs with Lyanne Mormont as we speak, and Bran is a tree. Explain to me how a tree is supposed to help me negotiate trade agreements!”

“Have you forgotten that the dead rose?” Jon snapped. He was getting more and more angry with Sansa, particularly her unkindness about Arya, who had adapted almost as poorly to the peace as Jon himself. On her visits to the Wall, he had been heartbroken by the lost, empty look in Arya’s eyes, at her restlessness. Sometimes he wondered how it was that only Sansa, the seemingly weakest of all of the Stark children, had emerged from the war and the winter the one most unscathed. It was as if aspects of the past had simply vanished from her mind, or had been rewritten into something more pleasant. If so, he envied her.

“I know the dead rose, and I know that the Others were defeated. We are still here.” She shook her head impatiently, and sparkling pins in her streaming hair caught the sunlight. She caught her lip between her teeth, and took a breath. “But … Daenerys is gone, Jon. If she had lived and you had died she would not be wasting her life in mourning you. You know that.”

It felt like a blow to his gut. “You don’t understand. You have never loved anyone the way that Daenerys and I loved each other.”

Sansa stepped back and her face went still. “At least I understand the difference between fulfilling one’s duty and hiding from it,” she snapped back. “Father, my father would never have behaved like this.”

“Now you sound like your mother.”

“What do you wish to say about my lady mother?” she asked, her face pale. She pulled Jon’s cloak tight around herself. 

“Oh do not be coy, Sansa. You know as well as I that Catelyn would have pushed me out the door to beg at the gates if she could.”

“Can you blame her for the way she felt? Your presence at Winterfell shamed her. Every day, it shamed her that you were raised with the trueborn children.” Sansa closed her eyes for a moment, and her voice shook. “She believed that Father loved another woman enough to disgrace his wife by taking a bastard into their home. She died believing that, and rose and died again, still believing it. He let her die believing that.”

“Is that my fault? He did it to keep me safe.”

“None of it was your fault, but … he lied to her for you.” Her voice shook. “I thought Father would never tell a lie, and all their lives together he lied to my Mother for your sake.”

“Like you have never told a lie, Sansa,” he snapped, furious. “Arya told me all about how you lied for that little shit of a prince of yours after you left Winterfell. I don’t remember? It all happened so fast? Does that sound familiar?”

Sansa shook her head, shrinking further into the cloak. “That is just like the two of you, laughing together behind my back.”

“Arya treated me like her brother, not her bastard half-brother.” 

“I was a child!” She turned away, then turned back, her eyes hard and the pins in her hair flashing. “And the truth is that you were our bastard half-brother, and you are still a bastard. I don’t care what the decree of legitimization says, Jon Snow, you are a bastard.”

“And you are a spoilt brat who never cared about anyone but yourself.” Jon took a deep breath and forced his anger down. “This ends now.” He told her, keeping his voice from shaking. “Remember that I am the Regent of the North and a Prince of the Realm. You have chosen to live as a Stark and that makes you subject to my orders. You will go to King’s Landing as you have been commanded. If not, you are welcome to return to the protection of your husband.”

Sansa glared at him. “Valar dohaeris,” she said bitterly. “I will go, and you can receive the trade delegations, and arrange the marriages, and try to control Rickon. And I hope it all goes to seven hells on you.” She unfastened Jon’s cloak and pushed it into his hands. “I will depart for King’s Landing immediately. Goodbye, your highness.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder and stormed off in the direction of the cage, her thin cloak fluttering in the wind behind her, her riding boots slipping on the ice.

He watched her walk away, and drew breath to call out to her. Then he let that breath out, the words unspoken, bitter anger still lingering like a taste in the back of his mouth. 

Bastard, her voice echoed in his mind and it was like a stab, over and over again. Not a true Stark, not a true Targaryen, my oaths to the Night’s Watch gone with my first life, he thought. I have no true family. I thought I came back from the dead for Daenerys, but I made the mistake of living on after her, day after day after wretched day, with nothing but duty. I was nothing but a warrior, and now I have no battle to fight. 

He sat down on a pile of ice, suddenly exhausted. He felt the anger running out of him, the dark lassitude that was so familiar replacing it. He should never have let himself get so angry with Sansa. Too late to take any of it back. He looked north to where Visarion soared in the air over his brother’s bones. His vision wavered and blurred. He touched his face and realized he was crying. I cannot continue existing like this, he thought. Seven years. I cannot go on, and I cannot go back, and I cannot continue like this. The Wall was ice underneath him, and the wind was blowing straight through him like a knife, and he could not even move to shield himself from its cut.


	2. A Journey South

To Jon of the House Targaryen, Prince of the Realm (legitimized), Regent of Winterfell, Warden of the North, Guardian of the Wall and the Lands Beyond, and Dragonrider to Viserion the Fleet.

I have arrived in Gulltown, after a week at sea. I was ill every day. Robert Arryn rode from the Eyrie to meet my ship as we docked. I had concerns that he would demand that I get back on the ship and sail south after a mere hour on shore, but my cousin Lord Arryn of the Vale is a gracious and noble Lord who would never dream of such behavior. 

By happy coincidence, Sir Podrick Payne also has happened to visit the Vale during my time here. (You may not remember Sir Payne, who is in service to the Lannisters. He hunts at Winterfell every year and has helped you to patrol north of the Wall three times.) I was surprised by his visit as there is no tourney scheduled in the Vale this season, but he was kind enough to take Sweetrobin climbing in the mountains in search of hatchling falcons and to hunt down a shadowcat which had been terrorizing the local smallfolk. Sir Payne has made a great reputation for valour since the war. Most of his deeds have been done south of the neck, and are therefore, of course, of no interest to you. 

The Vale is at peace, but on my trip south we saw evidence of recent trouble. Last year pirates had established themselves on the Isle of the Paps and were raiding the shipping between White Harbour and the south. Three royal ships sent to deal with them were sunk and captives plucked from the water were mutilated in the most gruesome manners imaginable before being left alive on the beaches of the fingers. The pirates were unassailable until your brother came personally on Rheagal and burned them out of their stronghold. We stopped at the Isle to take on water. Water is the only thing of value left there. Even what had once been a sandy beach was fused into glass. Although you must know it well, I had never seen the effects of dragonfire before – I understand well now how the first Aegon and his sisters were able to conquer the Seven Kingdoms. 

I have had clothing made appropriate for attendance at court, the accounts for which are enclosed. As I am travelling as your representative, the expenses should be charged to your own incomes as a Prince of the Realm and not to those you manage as Regent of the North. You will find the amounts are substantial.

I sail for King’s Landing in the morning. I anticipate being ill the entire way.

By my hand, Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell

***

The ocean waters were calm for the first time in the voyage south as Sansa’s ship, the Mermaid’s Tale, pulled into Blackwater Bay. She sat at the bow, resting one hand on the battered figurehead of a mermaid lifting a conch shell to her smiling lips, and watched the blue waters slide by. The sun sparkled on a thousand tiny ripples in the surface of the water, and the sails snapped in the light wind. Gulls flitted through the rigging. When did I last spend a morning idle? Sansa wondered, and could not remember.

She pulled her grey cloak around herself against the breeze. In truth, she had needed the new clothes; it had been an increasing effort to keep her old dresses from looking shabby even by the relaxed standards of the North. The north was as poor in coin after the winter as it was starved for manpower, and making Winterfell and the winter town habitable for the next cold season swallowed both resources at a prodigious rate. One less needlewoman meant coin for one more skilled stonemason. Sansa had been grateful to Septa Mordane’s teaching of sewing skills as she tried to keep Rickon looking like the Lord of Winterfell – although she had not envisaged him wearing an elaborately embroidered wolf-head vest shirtless and over fur pants, she had to admit the effect was striking. 

Hopefully, the financial situation would improve with the years. Although she had reproached Jon for his lack of attention to his duties as Regent, she was glad that he had not looked too carefully at some of her schemes over the last seven years. The stop at the Vale had allowed her to advance her plans to marry Robert Arryn to Wylla Manderly of White Harbour. Wylla would do well in the Vale, and Sweetrobin needed a strong Lady, Sansa knew. In the longer turn the marriage would only serve to bind the Vale closer to the Starks. 

Sansa had also been careful to keep on good terms with her Tully relations. Rickon and Arya would have thrown away the Tully alliance over Roslin, so it had been left to Sansa to paint a smile on her face during her visits and let the Frey kiss her cheek like a sister. (Roslin had been so grateful that Sansa had even felt a bit of remorse over some of the recent mysterious misfortunes to have befallen the Frey clan.) It had been worth it when Edmure had agreed to betroth his eldest daughter to a northern bannerman. Sansa had plans regarding control of the trade between the three kingdoms north of the Trident. The marriages and agreements she was brokering now should provide a very nasty shock to the southerners in a generation or so. 

While she had been in the Vale, Lord Nestor had been celebrating the birth of his daughter Myranda’s third son, another heir to Highgarden. Sansa, along with Margaery, had her fingers in the match between Myranda Royce and Willas Tyrell after the war, and it had been a great success. Jolly, shrewd Myranda had brought Margaery’s crippled brother out of his shell and he had tempered some of Myranda’s more wild inclinations. Sansa had attended their marriage at the Gates of the Moon. Gentle Willas had kissed Sansa’s hand and thanked her, and that night she had gone to bed with a pot of tea and had a long self-indulgent cry for what might have been. 

Still, she though, there were worse things than to be alone. Jon had promised Arya after the war that he would not force her into marriage, and Sansa’s sister had taken full advantage of that rash oath. Even if Jon had been willing to make Sansa the same promise he had made Arya, she would not have trusted his word to the Stark sister he loved less. So when she and Tyrion had met at Riverrun early in the spring, and Tyrion had offered to annul their sham of a marriage, she had declined. If I were truly wed, she thought, what value would I have to my husband? Only the beauty which will fade soon enough and a chance of inheriting Winterfell that will vanish as soon as Rickon fathers an heir. Then, she thought, I would be at the mercy of a stranger. 

Sansa knew on some level that she should resent Rickon’s future bride. She would have to surrender the title of Lady of Winterfell and the freedoms and honours that went with it. However, she could not find it in her heart to hold a grudge against this unknown girl who would replace her. If only her coming meant babies at Winterfell, Sansa thought, and if she let me hold them sometimes, I could forgive her anything. 

“Milady?” She looked back at Jorman the Bear, the captain of her guard. He stood the rocking deck of the ship like it was dry land. “They say we will be docking within the hour.” He leaned in with a grin. “If you want to jump out and swim home, girl, now would be the time.”

“Tempting,” she answered with a smile. “If only I could swim.” Jorman called himself a Bear, but Sansa knew he had never seen the Mormonts’ island. His mother had been a salt wife taken by the Ironborn, and he had been born on Pyke. He had left as soon as he was of age, and although she knew he returned to visit his mother he never spoke of his father. Jorman had fought as a sellsword in Essos, then come to the North to fight under Stannis in the war. “Is everything ready?” she asked him.

He grinned. “We’ll do our parts in your little show, don’t you worry about that.” 

When Jorman retreated, Sansa took a deep breath and finally raised her eyes. The Red Keep shone in the morning sun. How could it look so beautiful, she wondered? The walls should crack with disease and ooze all the blood that has been shed there. The bells of the Great Sept should ring to the sound of screams. How could King’s Landing pretend to be a place of peace? She dropped her eyes, unable to look any further as a surge of nausea overwhelmed her and she almost retched over the side. 

Jon asked me to do this, she thought, because he cannot. Jon’s body is healthy, but there is something broken in his mind, and the Red Keep is not kind to broken things. Sansa wished she could have found some way to shake Jon out of his melancholy, but Arya had always firmly dissuaded Sansa from her various plans to do so over the years. Given the disastrous results of her visit to the wall, she had to admit her sister had a point. I can do nothing to free Jon from the darkness in his mind. But I can stand in his stead at his brother’s court and perhaps help keep the peace of the realm. When he is ready, I can make sure there is something for Jon to come back to. This is the only thing he has ever asked of me. I can do this. She took a deep breath, touched the round silver pin at her throat, and raised her chin to face the scene of all her nightmares.


	3. The Dragon's Court

The docks of King’s Landing were a riot of colours, sounds, and smells, most of them bad. Sansa wrinkled her nose and wished that the past kings of Westeros had spent less time warring and more time building good sewers. The reek of half a million people under the midsummer sun was near overpowering. She sat hunched in the rowboat that ferried her from her ship and pulled her headscarf across her nose.

She had timed her arrival around the court, not the tides, and the seamen had to lift her physically up onto the quay like a bag of potatoes. Waiting for her was a small, familiar figure with attendants and banners behind him. She knelt on the stone to kiss her husband’s scarred cheek. He embraced her awkwardly. 

“My wife, I swear you are more beautiful every time I see you.”

“I would take that as a compliment, husband, if we had met more often,” Sansa retorted. She smiled to pull the sting. Although she was careful not to let her face show it, she was shocked by how much Tyrion had aged since she had seen him four years ago. Deep lines were etched in his face – pain? Fatigue? Sadness? His hair and beard were entirely silver, giving him the look of a small old lion gnawing at a bone and surveying the domain he once had ruled. 

Tyrion had a litter ready, and waited almost gallantly to climb in while she settled the pool of her skirts and cloak before climbing in himself. To her surprise, Tyrion did not suggest closing the curtains once they were underway. The last time they had shared a litter in the streets of King’s Landing he had feared that the populace would throw dung at him – clearly he had risen in the esteem of the small-folk.

“Prince Jon was unkind to send you here.” Tyrion observed, breaking the silence that had stretched between them as soon as they were alone. 

Sansa shared the sentiment, but had no intention of admitting so to anyone outside the family. “He did what he thought was best. The North does not have flocks of diplomats at its command.”

“Yes, I know. Aegon asked Jon to come to court at my suggestion, but I didn’t anticipate this. I’m sorry, Sansa.” He shook his head. “Never mind. Just keep your head down and you’ll be back safe in Winterfell before you know it.”

“Safe? Is there trouble?”

“There is always trouble when one is governing Westeros. Nothing you need to worry your little head about.”

Sansa mentally sighed. Her husband had been tempted to treat her like a grown woman at twelve: now that she was a woman grown he seemed unable to think of her as anything but a rather dim-witted child. “Is a wife not supposed to share her husband’s burdens?”

“Are you offering to start assuming wifely duties? That should make this visit much merrier,” Tyrion japed. She dropped her eyes and stared at her skirts, her stomach doing a slow queasy roll. Tyrion sighed. “That was a joke, Sansa.” 

“I know,” she said carefully, willing her voice not to tremble. Of course she knew that. If he had wanted to insist that she return to him and live as his wife, Tyrion could have done so at any time since the war. She willed her heart to stop racing.

“I guess you should know one thing. There will likely be a new Hand before the year is out. No, I’m not out of favour, or tired of the job. I am sick.” He touched his side. “Last year the Grandmaester found a little lump. Now it is a big lump and two more small ones to keep it from getting lonely. Only the King and the Grandmaester know this, but I am unlikely to see the autumn.”

She looked up, then, shocked out of her fear. “Then I am glad I came, if for nothing more than to be here.”

Tyrion scoffed. “Please spare me your insipid sentiments. I miss Lannisters. Not those pathetic cousins who will inherit the Rock: real miserable, scheming, drinking, plotting Lannisters all fighting and fucking each other. I miss disappointing my awful family. I miss being insulted by someone who knows how it should be done.”

“I am sorry, my lord,” Sansa said coolly, reminding herself that she was a lady and it would be inappropriate to remedy her little husband’s desire to be insulted. “Does Podrick know? He would wish to see you again before …”

“Oh, I have no doubt that we will be seeing him at court before too long.” There was a funny smile on Tyrion’s face as he said that. Sansa was unsure of its meaning. She had never heard Podrick mention attending court, but of course, she realized, he must visit Tyrion. She felt a warmth at the thought of seeing at least one friend in her time in King’s Landing.

As they passed the gate to the Keep, she saw a stone tableau above the arch. A man’s stone body stood above the arch. Around his feet were bodies: a knight, a maester, and a woman in septa’s robes. The fallen bodies were clearly statues, the details carefully rendered. The man’s body was different. The limbs and face were startlingly lifelike, almost perfect, while the torso and the rest of the head was shrunken and misshapen. She felt a chill go through her as she realized that this was no statue. “Is that --?”

“Jon Connington,” Tyrion answered flatly, without looking up. “The Plaguebringer. If you haven’t seen a stone corpse before you will find plenty here.” 

“In the North, we were spared the grey plague,” she said. But we lived amongst the stone dead in the North, too, Sansa thought, as the memory of the darkest time of the winter came back to her. Most northerners had fled to White Harbour and the south, but she, Arya, and Rickon had remained at Winterfell with a few servants and over the months refugees had trickled in, drawn by the hope of the life-giving hot springs under the ruined castle. They had managed to rebuild a few stone walls and roofs to trap the precious heat, but in the worst of the snows the makeshift buildings had collapsed and in desperation they had fled into the crypts and the natural caves beyond them. The precious hot springs had kept them alive down there in the darkness. Arya had given the order to extinguish the lights to save their fuel: she had been at her best in those years, giving orders with cold ruthlessness. Sansa could still remember reading Rickon’s expressions with her hands on his cheeks and finding her way through the caves through the feel of a knotted rope in her hand. “We were fortunate that the food convoys from the Vale travelled too slowly to carry the grey death,” she told Tyrion, with a smile. 

“The population of King’s Landing is less than a third of what it was in Robert’s day. Most of the towns of the south are the same.” She could see the truth of his words for herself as she looked through the curtains of the litter – many of the houses they passed were clearly uninhabited and the streets which had once teemed with people were quiet. Still, she shivered at the thought of that silent corpse overlooking the city, and the bitterness implied by the decision to place him there.

“Even the Keep has more than enough space for those of us who remain there. I have arranged quarters for you in the new Tower of the Hand, if that is agreeable. All we have to do is present you at court. Simple enough. Have you met the King before?”

She shook her head. “What is he like?” 

“He’s a King. Difficult, demanding, sometimes mercurial. He has a hot temper and a sense of entitlement as broad as the Blackwater. But he’s no Joffrey, no Robert Baratheon, no Aerys. He was raised to be a good king and he tries hard to live up to those expectations. Most of the time he succeeds: Aegon never misses a meeting of the small council, knows the laws and ordinances forward and backward before he signs them, makes hard decisions and accepts responsibility for the consequences. As a Hand I would much prefer a king who signs things without reading them first, but nothing is perfect.” Tyrion sighed. “You should know that Aegon has no love for his half-brother. Jon’s refusal to come to King’s Landing wounded his pride. But he should receive you courteously enough. At least I hope so.”

How reassuring. Sansa had some plans on how to manage that, but she did not feel the need to enlighten her husband. “I have not said how grateful I am that you have been willing to continue our marriage, in all the circumstances.”

“It didn’t require any great sacrifice on my part.”

Of course, she knew that Tyrion had no particular love for her. If he had no wish to remarry, she did not intend to question his motives. She had assumed he found the relationship as convenient as she did, so long as the two of them could avoid each other’s presence.

“I had no desire to marry again. I usually assume that all women are whores,” Tyrion said casually. “Noble wives are just very, very expensive whores. Of course, you don’t cost me anything, but you don’t do anything, either, so I suppose that works out.”

I haven’t even set foot in the Red Keep, Sansa thought in silent outrage, and my husband has called me a whore. It had been many years since Sansa Stark had believed in knights and heroes from songs, but if valiant Ser Duncan the Tall or Ser Arthur Dayne the Sword of the Morning had appeared before her Sansa that moment in a cloud of silver mist and offered on bended knee to do her bidding, she would have had one request: for the beaten body of her bastard once-brother Jon Snow to be laid at her feet. 

Knightly saviours failed to arrive. In the courtyard, she refused Tyrion’s assistance in getting down as well as his offer to escort her into the throne room. “Go on ahead,” she told Tyrion. When he was gone, she slipped off the long grey cloak and handed it to one of her maids. The scarf wrapped around her hair followed it. She gestured to Jorman and her escort to step into the throne room ahead of her, waited the count of ten, then stepped into the centre of the doorway, pausing at the head of the steps.

She had planned this carefully. For a consideration, Olyvar (who had assumed conduct of some of Petyr’s more dubious businesses in King’s Landing) had briefed her on the styles of Aegon and Arianne’s court. As she looked out she saw a sea of color: the oranges and yellows of billowing fabrics, sand-washed silks in rich hues, the glittering gold and patterned headscarves of Dorne. Sansa stood in the doorway in a column of white Samite silk. On one side of her was Jorman the Bear in ragged leathers and fur trim, despite the heat, and on the other was Throne, one of her female guards, originally a wildling spearwife and looking every inch the part. The contrast to her own immaculate appearance was striking, she knew. 

She waited while a hush fell over the throne room, keeping her expression calm. She had one simple goal. Make people remember what you want them to, the voice of Petyr Baelish echoed in her memory. Let them see your beauty and your presence, give them a show, and that will be the story they tell until they forget there is any other. She hoped it would work. Many of Petyr’s schemes had depended on wild luck, and she liked to know the results of her moves before she made them. She needed the courtiers and their touchy King to remember her dramatic arrival, and to forget that Prince Jon had insulted his brother by refusing his summons. 

Sansa started down the steps, letting her wildly mismatched escorts fall into place a few steps behind her. The crowd parted in front of her.

Aegon Targaryen looked down on her from the Iron Throne of his ancestors. He looked nothing like Jon, she noted, surprising herself by how disappointed she was at the thought. His Dornish mother had also left little enough of her looks in her son, and he bore scant resemblance to his beautiful Queen. He was all Targaryen, as they had been described in a thousand songs: the silver hair and deep violet eyes, features that were so handsome as to almost be called beautiful. He wore a tunic in red and black brocade set with rubies and polished onyx. 

The Queen who sat in a backless chair at his side was in sharp contrast to her husband. Her hair was dark to his fairness, her dress of flowing golden silk bright where he was grim. Arianne’s eyes sparkled with a lively intelligence and good humour. As she sat, she rested one hand on her gently curved stomach, where the much-anticipated heir was growing. The King and Queen sat close enough that they could converse under their breath as they watched their court from above. Tyrion stood on the steps below them. Next to him was the only other face she recognized from her time at court – Garlan Tyrell.

No, not the only familiar face. In a corner, half hidden in the shadows, Varys the Master of Whispers, was watching her.

“The court is honoured by the presence of the Lady of Winterfell,” Aegon said perfunctorily when she was announced. “But as I recall, I summoned my brother, Lady Sansa, not you. Why has he not answered my call?” 

Sansa supressed a mental curse. “Prince Jon is guarding the North in the service of your realm and the safety of your people. Is the rising of the dead such a thing as to be forgotten in the turn of a season, your grace?” she said, keeping her tone measured, but letting it ring through the chamber. This is how my mother would have spoken to the lords of the North. She would never have shown she was afraid. “I recall that when the war of the dawn began, kings and lords squabbled in the south and the Night’s Watch was held in contempt. I was only a child, but was in the throne room when the Night’s Watch begged for men, and left with only criminals from the dungeons. Those were the men your brother was left with to turn back the greatest threat this realm has ever faced, and he succeeded. You may believe the threat is passed and will never come again in our time, but Prince Jon is not so confident and he is guarding your realm with all his resolve, your grace.” She let the words fall into the sudden silence, and kept her eyes on the king. 

“Well spoken, Lady Stark. The Queen and I apologize if we have welcomed you discourteously.” Aegon’s eyes flickered around the room, then back to Sansa, and she realized she had under-estimated the young king. He knows the game I am playing, she thought. Still, she was taken aback when he rose from the Iron Throne and strode down until he was standing on the floor at a level with her. It was only when he was moving that she finally saw the resemblance to Jon. They were built the same, with a lean muscled elegance and an economy of movement she could only think of as graceful. He extended his hand to her. When she gave him hers, he brought it to his lips and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. Close up, his violet eyes were dark, shaded with astonishingly long lashes, and dancing with amusement. Sansa was shocked. I staged this scene, she thought in silent outrage, and he is stealing it! She glared at him, and he answered the look with a half-smile that in happier days she had seen on Jon’s face.

“Our court is honoured by the presence of the sister of the Wolf Lord, the niece of Edmure Tully of the Riverlands, and the cousin of the Young Falcon. Not to mention, of course, the lady wife of my beloved Hand. You have travelled for many weeks from the most distant part of my realm to be here, and we are honoured by the attendance of such a great lady.” Sansa suddenly realized that he had not released her hand. How had she not noticed that? Aegon continued, “There was a time you believed yourself to be the sister of my brother, although I am not quite sure what that makes us to each other,” he added, to the laughter of the room. 

“Lady Sansa, I see that your reputation is well earned for more than just your beauty.” the Queen said. Sansa suddenly realized that Arianne was standing at her husband’s side. When had the Queen moved, she wondered. Never forget to watch every person in the room, Petyr’s voice echoed in her mind. Don’t focus on the main players so much that you miss the other moves. The Queen was smiling at Sansa, although she gave Aegon a sidelong glance and a raised eyebrow. He gave his Queen a small wink as he finally released Sansa’s hand. “I do hope that we will be good friends,” Arianne continued.

“I would like that, your grace,” Sansa said. Through the theatre, she found she meant the sentiment. “I would like that very much.” She found herself warming to Aegon’s Queen at least as much as to the cool, handsome king.

Standing, Arianne’s pregnancy was less noticeable, although her dress was clearly cut to show off her belly. It would be her fifth pregnancy, Sansa knew, and not a single living child. The first two had been healthy, but the girl had died of a pox before the fever had taken the Crown Prince. Arianne’s other two children had died within hours of birth. Small wonder the Queen wished to remind her people that she was fulfilling her most important duty. 

Aegon stepped back, and looked appraisingly at her. “I offered my brother a seat on my small council, to speak for the North,” he said.

“The Prince knows that you did him great honour,” she answered carefully.

“So in his stead, he sends you, Lady Stark.” Aegon continued. “In Prince Jon’s absence you will take his seat on the council.” 

Sansa stared at him, stunned. “Your grace is too kind,” she said. Behind him, she could see that Tyrion’s face had gone white, and he was looking daggers at Aegon’s back. Arianne, by contrast, seemed less surprised.

Sansa’s mind was whirling. With one move, she had been catapulted from unknown envoy to a possible power in the court. But … Winterfell, she thought. What does this mean? When will I be able to return home? Still, she knew that this was an extraordinary gesture and she could not refuse. “Thank you,” she said. “I understand that quarters have been prepared. If I might have your leave to retire, your grace?”

“Of course. Lord Lannister … your husband,” Aegon amended, glancing down at Tyrion, “has arranged rooms for you in the new Tower of the Hand.” He nodded, dismissing her.

As Sansa left the throne room, she wanted to turn and look, to see if the King was still watching her or if he had moved on to other business. But that would ruin her scene, and each part had to be perfect. So she glided from the throne room without a backward glance, letting their last vision of her be white silk like a drift of snow in all the brilliant colour and all the darkness of the dragon’s court.

*** 

Her quarters were spacious and airy, high in the tower with a view over the walls of the Keep out to the sea. Tyrion occupied the entirety of the floor below, she had been told. She was grateful to him for the diplomatic placing of her rooms – close enough to be appropriate to their long standing marriage, and for their households to work together as required, but clearly without any suggestion of co-habitation. She went to the window to admire the view.

A throat cleared, meaningfully. She turned to see Jorman standing with his arms crossed and a smirk on his face.

“I thought that went well,” she said defensively.

“You haven’t the sense the Gods gave a gnat, girl,” said Jorman. “If you wanted to make a big impression on the King, could’ve saved yourself some coin on that stupid dress and just done the man on the throne room floor. That would have made them all forget they were mad at Prince Jon.” 

Sansa felt her face burn with mortification. “I didn’t …” she protested weakly.

“Might as well have done, the way you were looking at him. Not that I blame you,” Jorman smirked. “I don’t go that way, but I’d be tempted to make an exception for him.”

Sansa spun away, determined not to show that she understood what had just been said to her. Why do I keep paying you?” she asked thin air. 

“He liked you, too,” Jorman said.

Sansa turned back. “That may be no bad thing. When he spoke about Jon ….”

“Aye, I saw it.”

“This is far more than just the insult of not attending a summons. Aegon hates Jon. He barely knows his brother, but he hates him.” She shivered. “Things should never have been allowed to come to this.”

“I’ll stay on if you do, girl,” Jorman said. “And I’ll keep you from harm best I’m able. But are you sure this is smart? We could be back at the Eyrie in a week.” 

“I have to stay,” she said. “To leave now would be to make everything far worse than if I had never come at all.” This trouble will pass, she thought. I just have to figure out how to fix what is broken. I can find a way. I always have before. She sighed. Jon, do you understand what a mess you have left me to deal with?


	4. An Unexpected Visitor

To Jon of the House Targaryen, Prince of the Realm, Regent of Winterfell, Warden of the North, Guardian of the Wall and the Lands Beyond, and Dragonrider to Viserion the Fleet.

I have arrived safely at court, and the king has accepted me as your representative. Beyond any of my expectations he has seated me as an advisor on his small council in your stead. Unsurprisingly, there have been voices critical of this decision. Since the Conqueror only three women not Queen or Queen Regent have sat as advisors on the council, including the Queen’s cousin Nymeria Sand under Tommen. I hope that I am able to prove myself worthy of the honour. The other councillors have treated me with courtesy, although the presence of the Queen at many of the meetings is a comfort.

King Aegon seems to be a capable ruler from my limited knowledge of him, but his rule faces challenges: too few able bodies to work the land and rebuild the damage of the war, the ruinous debts left by the Baratheon usurpers, religious fighting between the followers of the Seven and of R’hllor. Fortunately, the dragon prevents military challenges to Targaryen rule as Westeros is in no position to face any more battles. 

Aegon grew up without a brother. He speaks little of you, but I believe he was truly hurt and angered when you declined to come to his court. He has taken the throne and performed the inglorious task of rebuilding a devastated realm in the shadow of two legends – yourself and Daenerys. I have no doubt that he knows full well that every noble disgruntled by his decisions likes to sing of the Prince Who Was Promised. Aegon would be only human if he resented you and you have done nothing to lessen that resentment. I understand your reasons for sending me to court in your stead, but if you were to make even a brief visit to court it would do much to reassure the King of your loyalty and regard. If you are unable to do so, I will continue to attempt to maintain the peace to the best of my abilities.

My appointment to the small council necessitates a longer stay than originally planned, and I have been forced to allow many of my people with family at Winterfell to return to the north. My husband and I operate a combined household in some respects, but I have been forced to replace all my maids and half my guard. Accounts are enclosed.

I have received a letter from Jeyne Pool at Winterfell, who tells me that Lyanna Mormont has quarrelled with Rickon. The precise word she used was ‘stabbed.’ I note that in the years I was resident at home, Rickon was never punctured with a sharp object. Have you considered doing something about this? 

By my hand, Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, advisor to the Council of King Aegon the Sixth of His Name

*** 

Day was breaking across the Red Keep. Sansa snuggled down into the blankets, drowsily contemplating going back to sleep. The councillors kept the same hours as their king, and those hours were long. Aegon took Rheagal out flying at dawn every morning and was never in the air for less than three hours. Lunches were devoted to hosting envoys, and court was held in the afternoon. The real work of governing Westeros was conducted by candlelight while the rest of the court slumbered or conducted their amusements. If their king had a seemingly inexhaustible supply of energy, his councillors did not. Sansa closed her eyes against the light streaming into her window and yawned. 

She sat up abruptly as the door of her chambers slammed open. “Cousin Sansa!” a voice squealed. There was a weight on the bed, and Sansa found arms being flung around her. “I’m so glad you are here, I came as soon as I heard!” Her visitor pulled back and Sansa found herself looking at a completely unfamiliar young girl. She was clearly highborn, judging from her dress, and beaming at Sansa. “I’m so glad to see you again,” the girl said, enthusiastically. She hugged Sansa again, burying her face in Sansa’s neck.

I am being attacked by a mad girl, thought Sansa, grateful that she wasn’t in the habit of sleeping in the nude. “It is lovely to see you, too,” she said to the child, keeping her tone gentle and soothing. “How did you get in here?” 

Jorman had appeared in the open door. Over the girl’s shoulder, Sansa spread her palms in silent gesture of ‘who is this person?’ Jorman shook his head, indicating he was as mystified as she was. Sansa glared at him. The only access to her quarters was via the same stair Tyrion’s household used, so the girl had made it past not only Sansa’s own guards but also the Lannister men. 

“Yeeeaaah, I’m ten years old,” the girl said. “What were they going to do to me?” 

Jorman nodded silent agreement, not looking nearly as remorseful as he ought. In fact, her chief of guard seemed to find the situation funny. Sansa pointed at him, then at the stairs, and he quietly vanished. 

Sansa gently detached the girl from herself and took a look at her. Who in the Seven Hells are you? She cast about for a delicate way to ask the question. The girl had neither the look of a Tully nor of a northerner. She was short for a ten-year-old, and skinny, with a round snub-nosed face. Only bright eyes and her lively expression saved her face from plainness. Her gown was expensively decorated in beads and a few gems, but Sansa noted that it was ill-fitting. Sansa frowned. “Where did you ride from?” she asked, fishing for clues.

“Oh, from home. I came in last night while you were in the council meeting – cousin Tyrion lets me keep rooms in the keep. It has been so long.”

Cousin Tyrion … a Lannister cousin? This girl could not look less like the beautiful girls of the current Lannister generation – Janei with her radiant golden beauty, or the ethereal, delicate Joy Hill. “How long has it been?”  
Sansa ventured.

“I was at your wedding, but of course I don’t remember it.”

The pieces suddenly fell into place. “Because you were just a baby,” Sansa said. Ermensande Hayford, last of her line, married to Tyrion’s first cousin Tyrek Lannister before she was weaned. Likely widowed not long after, but no one can prove it. Seven Hells, she actually is my cousin by marriage. Sansa sighed, slid over in her bed, and patted the mattress next to her. “Come and sit with me, and tell me how you have been. Do people call you Ermensande, or Sandy?”

“Really?” Ermensande beamed, and Sansa knew that the girl had not been as confident in her welcome has she had pretended. The Hayford lands were extensive, explaining the rich clothing, but without Ermensande having any immediate family, Sansa wondered who had been caring for her. For all the girl’s energy, she had a sad, neglected look about her. Most likely her care had been from distant relatives and perhaps a Septa or two. The girl’s over-enthusiastic welcome of Sansa said volumes about how warm that attention had been. 

Poor thing, Sansa thought. She brushed the sleep from her eyes, and listened to the girl’s chatter. Poor, mad, little fool to trust to a stranger in the Red Keep. Life is not a song, sweetling. Someday you may learn that, to your sorrow. Petyr’s words, echoed in Sansa’s ears. Maiden, gentlest of the Seven, let Ermansande not learn that lesson the way I did.

**** 

After breakfasting with Ermensande and returning the girl firmly to the care of her attendants, Sansa had taken to the gardens to clear her mind with a bit of sewing. Her maids brought a folding chair and spread a length of muslin on the ground to protect the material of her skirts, and another over her head to shield her skin from the sun.

Brella, who had been one of Sansa’s maids when she was first married and who now managed Tyrion’s household, had recommended the two maids as experienced lady’s servants. They were that, Sansa had to admit, and with her new duties she had no time to train inexperienced women in their tasks, but she missed her old servants from Winterfell. Their absence not only left her lonely, but deprived her of an important conduit of information about happenings in the Keep. These two were doubtless reporting to someone, Sansa knew. Still, she had been grateful for Brella’s help, and glad that she had returned to Tyrion’s service. The woman had been reduced to washing in the brothel during most of the winter, tainted by having served a traitor, and had struggled long to regain her position in the court.

Her purpose in being here was not simply to take the air (and avoid Ermensande). Many of the ladies of the court had the habit of walking or sitting in the gardens in the morning, and Sansa found it illuminating to note who spoke together and who did not. She watched the doings while keeping her fingers busy with sewing. She was making over the white dress she had worn on arrival, having decided that it was no longer politic to stand out too much in the court. She had decided to embroider a pattern of pale vines twining up the skirt and bodice of the dress, with tiny, brilliantly coloured butterflies resting here and there on the leaves. If she were honest with herself, she knew she was trying to copy the brilliant colours of Arianne’s silks and the flashes of silver and gold that made the Queen sparkle in the light as she moved. 

Sansa and her maids rose to their feet as the Queen herself came walking through the gardens. Arianne smiled. “Lady Sansa, please don’t let me disturb you. You do such beautiful sewing.”

The Queen was charming enough, but she had barely glanced at the embroidery before delivering the compliment, and Sansa was quite sure that Arianne had rarely held a needle. (Even the seemingly simplest of the Queen’s outfits would have taken weeks of work by expert seamstresses, and what she was wearing now, simple flowing robes in Targaryen red with black accents, was so perfect it nearly took Sansa’s breath away.) Still, Sansa nodded gracious acceptance of the compliment, which was well-meant. Arianne could not be more different than Cersei, the only other Queen Sansa had known. She was regal, but had a disarming manner that put even the most shy of her ladies at ease. Sansa had even seen Arianne coax a few words from Lady Seaworth, the wife of the Master of Ships, who was low-born and seemed to regard the other ladies of the court with reserved bemusement.

Sansa squared her courage before rising to speak to the Queen. “Actually, your grace, I was wondering if I might speak to you before the council meeting. There was a matter I was hoping to get your advice on.”

***

“I know I am very stupid with figures, but I just can’t make the numbers here add up.” Sansa pointed to the column.

Arianne followed her finger, gazed at the column, and raised an eyebrow. “That is because those numbers do not add up. The accounts on our loan re-payments to the Pentoshi money-lenders are wrong. In their favour.” 

It took me hours of double checking to be sure, Sansa thought. And she saw it in seconds. Arianne, she had quickly come to realize, missed very little. 

Not that being out-thought was an unusual experience here at court. The last few weeks had been a humbling experience for Sansa. She was coming to realize administering the remote and devastated north, where most people were strongly loyal to her family, had brought her into contact with few skilled players in the game. Uneasily, she wondered if she had begun to overestimate her own abilities in recent years.

“Is this the only one?” Arianne asked. Sansa shook her head, and Arianne pursed her lips. “The Master of Coin is either less able than we had thought, or …” Her voice trailed off ominously. “I will speak to my husband. Thank you for bringing it to me.” She looked speculatively at Sansa. “You have an unexpected gift for accounting.”

Sansa laughed. “Far from it. My great advantage is that I have so little natural talent with figures that I know every possible way of catching mistakes. I think the only time my father was ever truly angry with me was when I gave him some shoddy accounts. He threw the entire thing on the fire and made me stay up all night re-writing them.”

Arianne blinked in surprise. “I had never heard that Eddard Stark was such a stern parent to his daughters.”

“Usually more so to his sons,” Sansa said, smoothly, skipping over her mistake like a stone skipping over the water. Lightly, lightly, and the ripples would fade and it would be as if nothing had happened. “Surely Prince Doran trained you in many things, since you were to rule Dorne.”

“Yes,” Arianne said. “Some of them are even useful to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Sometimes,” she added, and there was a note of bitterness in the Dornish woman’s voice. Then Arianne shook her head. “I am glad you brought this up, although you could have approached the King directly.” She gave Sansa a teasing smile. “Aegon won’t bite you.”

“I didn’t … I just … I …”

“I was joking, Lady Sansa.” Arianne smiled. “When my cousin Tyene comes for the birth, we will have to have a contest between the two of you, to see which of you can seem the sweetest.” Arianne stroked her stomach, and Sansa thought that day would not be far away. “I would like to introduce you to all my cousins, the Sand Snakes,” the Queen added.

“I would like that. I met their father, many years ago, and Ellaria Sand. Oberyn was a very ... memorable ... person.”

Arianne laughed out loud. “He was that. I am sorry he never had the chance to meet my husband. There is more than a little of our uncle in him. That’s not always a good thing – there are times I swear Aegon gets up in the morning and decides he is going to do nothing but be a complete shit from dawn to dusk.”

Sansa gasped, shocked at the Queen’s language, then laughed with Arianne. Yes, she thought, the Queen is a very skilled player indeed. Sansa knew better than to trust, never that, never here, but she returned the Queen’s smile and thought that yes, she would like to know Arianne better, very much. 

*** 

At the council meeting, the Master of Coin was not present. Sansa sat in her usual seat beside Tyrion and said little as befit the youngest and newest member of the council. But she looked through the papers in front of her – the draft laws and the accounts, the plans for the new justice system, and she could see it all unfolding in front of her, the future of Westeros being built out of the ashes one decision at a time. 

She looked down the table, and Aegon met her eyes briefly. He gave her a smile of approval. She smiled back, feeling a blush staining her cheeks. Arianne is right, she thought. I shouldn’t be afraid. She thought of high-spirited, silly, little Ermensande Hayford, her Lannister child-bride cousin. We are building the world that she will live in when she is a woman, Sansa thought. We aren’t perfect, but we are not doing so badly. I am not doing so badly, she thought, and was surprised at how happy she felt.


	5. Indiscretions

The night bells had rung long since, and the small council had broken only to have the candles replaced. Including Tyrion, they were eight on the council, although with the Queen so near to her time, the grandmaester’s seat was, as usual, empty. The man seemed competent enough, but he was clearly feeling the pressure. This child must be born healthy, thought Sansa, and preferably a boy. No surprise if the man responsible for the former chose to spend the evening with his books. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard also rarely chose to take his seat on the council, leaving the remaining six to deal with the business of the realm.

The business of the evening was the state of the royal fleet. Since Sansa’s knowledge of sailing began and ended with the unfortunate consequences of throwing up into the wind, she contented herself with listening and observing the rest of the council. 

Robter Storm, the new master of coin, had been Renly’s accountant. Sansa sometimes wished she had not intervened in the matter of his predecessor. Although the man had been dishonest, he had at least been pleasant. The new appointment had been born on the wrong side of the blanket to a serving maid at Storm’s End, and had received nothing but bare acknowledgement from the hedge knight who had fathered him. He was rough spoken and supremely competent. With hard-earned bastard pride, Robter made no secret of his disdain for the presence of what he called a ‘spoilt noblewoman’ on the council.

The new Hand was likely to be the master of laws, Garlan Tyrell, or the master of ships, Davos Seaworth. Stannis’ former Hand was as plain spoken as the Master of Coin, but he showed her nothing but kindness. When she had been introduced to Lord Seaworth at her first council session, he had taken her hand in both of his. “I fought with the Prince at the Wall,” he had said simply. 

Sansa had heard variations on the same since, from lords and knights, freeriders and serving men. “I was there at the Wall; I fought the dead; I battled in the dark; my brother fell by the side of Prince Jon; I was with the Prince to the end.” They were not many, since there had been so few there in the battle, but the encounters always left her unsettled. In the North Jon was spoken of with affection and respect, but not this awed veneration, and Sansa did not know how to reconcile it with her knowledge of the boy she had grown up with. 

She had once asked Podrick what it had been like at the Wall, if it had been so different from all the other battles of the War of the Five Kings. He had gone silent. “If you have to ask the question,” he had told her, “you won’t understand the answer.” They had come close to a quarrel over it. Sansa had insisted that she knew what a battle looked like, as she had been at Blackwater Bay, and Podrick had commented that watching Cersei Lannister drink was not entirely the same thing as fighting on burning boats. Sansa had been forced to acknowledge she didn’t have a winning position in that argument. 

A knock on the door broke Sansa out of her reminiscences. Tyrion spoke briefly with a page, and turned to Aegon with a knowing smile. “Sire,” he said gravely. “I am told that your Queen sends her apologies. It seems she is occupied with an urgent matter of state.” There was a pause, then a murmur of excitement around the table as the news sunk in.

“Ah,” said Aegon. He looked flustered for the first time since Sansa had known him. “Well. That’s wonderful, of course.” He looked around, as if suddenly adrift. “I guess, as there is nothing we can do on that front, perhaps we should discuss the meeting with the Iron Bank’s envoy next week?”

“Sire,” said Tyrion firmly, “there is only one decision a king should make while we wait for glad tidings.” The Hand grinned wickedly, and produced two wineskins from a cabinet. “Do you think we should drink Arbour Gold or Dornish Red?”

**** 

Sansa’s head was spinning from the wine and the candles were dancing in front of her eyes. They had played “Real Arms or Fake,” and “Name the Targaryen.” She had done well at the first, but her knowledge of some of the obscure figures of history was poor, and she had lost several rounds in a row. She rarely drank more than one glass of wine with a meal and had never in her life consumed so much in a sitting. Hopefully she was concealing the effects, even if she felt more than a bit addled.

At least, she thought, she was doing better than poor lowborn Davos, who had failed every round of the first game and now looked like he was about to fall off his chair. Garlan was slurring his words, Robter was more abrasive than ever, and Aegon was half slumped with his eyes closed. Only Tyrion, among them all, was looking none the worse for wear. Sansa wondered how he managed it. Her husband must weigh less than she did and had drunk more, but the wine seemed to have less effect on him than water.

“What shall we play next,” Tyrion said brightly. “I know: truth or falsehood. We’ll ask each other questions. If the guess is wrong, the questioner drinks. If they are right, you drink. You must all know the game. Your grace, you start.”

Aegon didn’t open his eyes. “Lady Sansa. Where did you get your brooch from?”

She blinked, feeling a sudden cold sensation. “It is just a pin. There is no story there. Nothing to tell.”

“I don’t believe you. You wear that pin every day and you play with it every time something bothers you.” He opened his eyes and looked at her with a smirk. “That’s my question. I want to know where you got it.”

She would have loved to wipe that sardonic look off his face. Aegon knew his question was improper, curse him, or he would have if he had not been drunk. But making a scene would only make things worse. “I’ll just answer it myself. I paid the iron price for it,” she told him, straight-faced. “I slit a man’s throat with my own hands and took it off his corpse.” Deliberately, she kept her face expressionless and her tone matter of fact. Even Aegon did a double take. Sansa waited a beat or two, laughed, raised her cup to him, and drank. “Let me think of the next question,” she said.

“We haven’t finished mine yet,” Aegon insisted. “Don’t dodge the question. You inherited it from your mother?”

“Everything my mother owned was lost in the war, either burned at Winterfell or stolen at the Twins,” Sansa said shortly. “Drink.” Aegon raised his cup.

The Master of Coin smirked at her. “It was a gift from a lover.” He suggested. “A man? Or maybe ... a woman? Nights are cold in the north, I hear.” Sansa just glared, too furious for words, and Robter laughed and drank. “My apologies if I have offended our Lord Hand by questioning his wife’s virtue.” Tyrion shrugged, indicating the matter was of no interest to him.

“No guesses,” passed Varys.

“I chose not to ask a lady such a personal question,” said Garlan. “And I think this game has run its course.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said Sansa. “If you have all finished your fun at my expense–“

“Don’t I get a try?” came the voice of Tyrion from the end of the table. “You see, I fucked a whore once,” he started. 

Oh Seven protect me, thought Sansa, her tummy doing a slow queasy roll. Nothing good can come of this. 

The Imp’s voice droned on, slurred, implacable. “And she had a pin just like that one. The pattern is different, but the work is the same silversmith. Now, the important thing is that the place I fucked that whore,” he paused and smirked, “fucked her six different ways, was in a brothel under the walls of Winterfell.” He raised his cup to Sansa. “My sister once told me that a noble-born girl may wear jewels worth more than a fleet of ships but not own herself. You like the pin because somehow you found the coin and commissioned it, and that pin, and it alone, belongs to you, Lady Sansa.”

As Tyrion smirked, pleased at his own cleverness, she felt like she was twelve years old again, standing naked in front of him with her bridal gown on the floor around her feet. She suppressed a rise of nausea in her throat, raised her glass to him, and swallowed. “If you shall excuse me, my lords, your grace” she said quietly, “I suspect that my absence will allow the Hand to exercise his creativity in getting you all drunk much more freely, and profanely. I will return to my quarters and await word on the Queen.” With that, she gathered the remains of her dignity, and fled.

The hallway was quiet, and deserted except for the Kingsguard standing silent watch. Sansa thought that it must be getting close to dawn. She wobbled on her feet. Rather than risking the stairs to her quarters in the tower, she turned the other way, where there was a bend and then a hidden alcove where the council members sometimes had discrete conversations. It was deserted and silent. Sansa sat on a bench under the arched window, and leaned her head against the stone. A wisteria vine had grown up the wall; it was in flower and its perfume was thick in the air. She closed her eyes, fighting back tears. 

“I’m sorry.” She opened her eyes to see Aegon standing in front of her. He spread his hands in apology. “I didn’t think. It was not my intention to expose you like that. Tyrion ...”

“None of the Lannisters ever knew when to stop talking,” she said. “Their house might still be ruling Westeros if a single one of that benighted family had learned not to vocalize every thought that crossed their wretched minds.” 

“Harsh words from Sansa Stark Lannister,” Aegon laughed.

“Don’t.”

“I’m sorry.” Aegon laughed ruefully. “I keep saying that. I’m not at my best tonight. Too much to drink, too much to worry about. I should have known better than to get into a drinking contest run by one of the most depraved sots in my kingdom.” He gestured to the bench beside her. “May I?”

She moved aside to make room, and he sat, leaning gracefully against the wall. It was a pose so like Jon that her breath caught for a moment. A rush of homesickness filled her, not for Winterfell as it was now, but for Winterfell as it had been in the golden years of her childhood, when she had been foolish enough to take her siblings for granted.

“It must be difficult for a man,” she said, saying the first thing to come into her mind to distract herself. “Doing nothing.”

“After four labours, I know enough about the process to know I’m not getting the worse end of this, but yes, I do worry.” Aegon sighed. “I’m fond of Arianne, and she’s a good Queen, although she’s not the Queen I should have had at my side.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Daenerys.” Aegon looked out into the darkness of the sky. “Jon Connington and the others talked as if it was inevitable, the last two Targaryens refounding the dynasty together. There was a time I never even imagined that she might refuse me. I invaded Westeros with only the Golden Company for Daenerys Targaryen, I conquered Storm’s End, I went to battle at the Wall. I saw her there, for the first time. They told me she was the most beautiful woman in the world, but even my imagination didn’t do her justice.” His face went hard. “But my brother took her from me. She never saw anything but him.”

“He never meant to hurt you. Jon is one of the best people I know. He just doesn’t think --.”

“That somehow makes it worse. I wish I could make him care enough to want to hurt me. Gods, that makes me sound like some kind of monster.” Sansa put her hand sympathetically on his shoulder. He did not look at her, but did not move away either. “There were a lot of things Jon Connington told me. I was supposed to be prepared to be the perfect ruler. Instead, I’m just a poor copy of the younger brother I never knew I had.”

“I know. When I was a girl I thought – I learned to do everything the perfect lady should do. My sister was all skinned knees and clumsiness. I looked down on her. But in the end, she was the one they all loved best.”

“I find it hard to believe that no one would love you, Sansa.” Aegon reached up to his shoulder, where she was touching him, and put his hand over hers. 

To her own surprise, Sansa did not instinctively pull away. “Oh, you should have met me when I was a child,” she said ruefully. “I don’t think I ever called Jon anything other than my ‘bastard half-brother’. I used to hunt him down to call him that, just to be mean. I was horrible. I don’t even know why.”

“I love it. We should send him ravens addressed like that,” Aegon laughed. “I’ll give orders to the Maesters.” He paused. “What’s Jon actually like?” he asked, curiously. “I only met him briefly when I went to the Wall. From the songs I imagine him spending all his days standing on a pile of ice, with a drawn sword in his hand, his hair blowing in the wind.”

“I think that is about right, except the sword is on fire,” Sansa laughed. “And he is thinking about how frivolous and stupid we are down in the south.” The mirth ran out of her as quickly as it came. “At least when I was at Winterfell he would answer some of my letters. We had an awful fight before I left and I haven’t heard from him since. I should have gone back and apologized before I rode south, but I was too angry with him. I don’t know when I will get another chance.”

“Maybe he will come south.”

“No. Jon will never leave the Wall.” As she said it, she knew it was true. Perhaps I will never see him again, she thought. Ten years ago he had ridden north, and she had ridden south, and they had never even said goodbye. Now it had happened again. How had she come to leave him with every reason to be angry with her?

“May I ask you a personal question?” Aegon asked.

“Perhaps. That depends on the question.”

“It is no secret that your marriage to Tyrion was never consummated. You could have had an annulment at any time. I’ve seen the way you watch Arianne talk about her baby, like your heart is going to break. Why did you never want to truly marry, or take a lover? Was there someone in the war?”

“Yes, there was. Just not in the way you mean it.”

“Who was he?”

“Joffrey Baratheon.” She felt his hand tighten on hers, and shook her head. “You don’t need to say sorry yet again, it was nothing to do with you. It was all a very long time ago.”

“I know, I just think … I think it sad.” 

“There was so much sadness in the war. My lot was better than that of so many others.” 

He touched her hair with his free hand. “You are so beautiful, and your eyes are so sad … I wish …” She didn’t know which of them moved first, but suddenly his lips were on hers, impossibly gentle. She leaned into the kiss and found herself raising her hand to run fingers through his silvery hair, soft under her touch.

She unbalanced backwards on the bench, and he caught her around the waist. They both laughed, and he leaned in to kiss her again.

That was when Sansa’s brain started working again. She pushed him away sharply. “No. Stop.”

He pulled back, but his hands didn’t move. “This is nothing,” he said. He pulled her towards him and she put her hands on his chest to steady herself. Aegon smiled at her, and she felt like she was falling into his deep purple eyes with their long lashes. “We aren’t doing anything.” 

“I don’t …”

Someone cleared their throat.

A maester was standing in the entrance to the alcove, with a woman beside him. She was pretty, with a sweet face, golden hair, blue eyes, and a widow’s peak. Sansa had never met her but she had no difficulty putting a name to her. Tyene Sand – the Queen’s cousin and one of the famous Sand Snakes.

And her eyes were red with weeping. 

Aegon jumped to his feet. “Arianne? The child?”

The maester’s face was pale. “The Queen will live, but the child … I am sorry, your grace. The girl was stillborn.”

Aegon went still, completely silent. Finally, he closed his eyes, and nodded. “Is everything possible being done for my wife?”

“Yes, cousin,” Tyene said. 

“Then we need to inform the council,” Aegon said, his voice grim. He gave Sansa a look of silent apology, colour rising in his cheeks. Then he swept out with Tyene by his side and the maester following them. 

Left behind, mortified, and horrified, Sansa could only sit on the stone bench and stare after them. Well, that looked bad, she thought, distantly, still half-addled and with the taste of Aegon’s lips in her mouth. That looked bad, Sansa, because it was bad, said a mental voice that sounded like Septa Mordane. She sunk her face into her hands. She had compromised herself and she had disgraced Jon, in the middle of the disaster of the loss of the Queen’s child. Still, she knew her duty. She took a deep breath and steadied herself for the humiliating return to the council chambers, wishing she had some idea of what to do when she got there.


	6. Consquences

To Jon of the House Targaryen, Prince of the Realm, Regent of Winterfell, Warden of the North, Guardian of the Wall and the Lands Beyond, and Dragonrider to Viserion the Fleet.

If the terrible news has not reached the Wall, the Queen’s daughter was stillborn. The Grandmaester and midwives did everything they could, but she never drew breath. There can be no true mourning in the eyes of the Gods as the child never lived, but the realm grieves with the King and Queen.

You remain heir to the throne. How long for, I cannot say. Arianne nearly died in the birth. Maesters and healers tied to the Martells say she can have more children. Those who were born of other ambitious houses have been heard to say otherwise. The Queen has not even left her bed and already the whispers that Aegon should put her aside are starting. Margaery Tyrell is already making plans to bring her cousin Alys Hightower to court (against all my attempts to dissuade her), and she is not alone in her scheming. The Martells are furious, with reason. 

Under other circumstances I would attempt to broker peace, but I managed to offend the Martells recently. The matter was entirely my own fault, but incapable of rectification in the current circumstances. I would ordinarily attempt to maintain a low profile, but Aegon wants me to remain prominent at court as a sign of your support for the throne. All I can do is hope this crisis passes soon.

I know that we did not part on the best of terms, but I would value some word from you, Jon. 

By my hand, Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, Advisor to the Council of King Aegon the Sixth of His Name

*** 

Lady Sansa

I deeply regret what occurred between us the other night. If you are willing to meet me in the gardens this afternoon, I would like to offer my apologies in person.

Aegon

***

You bloody, blithering, idiot -- Are you serious? Fuck off, and go fix things with your own wife.

Tyrion

***

Court was quiet today, the attendees taking their cue from the King’s sombre mood. From her stool near the throne, Sansa watched the petitioners line up waiting their turn. Tyrion murmured in Aegon’s ear from the seat usually occupied by Arianne. Her husband had fallen on the stairs yesterday and he was still looking unsteady on his feet. Nothing seemed to be going right in the Red Keep lately, she thought.

Sansa kept her expression neutral and took care to avoid looking directly at Aegon. She had dressed carefully in a modest grey gown, high necked and full skirted, unadorned except for heavy silver embroidery on the cuffs of the long dagged sleeves. Still, she felt she could hear the whispers, the things being said behind her back and in the corners where they thought she couldn’t hear. Lady Bestan, who was all of eighty, had called Sansa a slut to her face, and Ermensande Hayford had pulled the woman’s hair. Sansa knew she probably shouldn’t have appreciated that as much as she had.

The worst were the women her own age, most of them married with children. Their husbands had mostly laughed it off (Robter actually seemed to loathe Sansa a bit less now), but the women understood the seriousness of her transgression far better. Sansa’s duties with the council had left her with little time to socialize when she had first arrived, and she would not have considered the ladies of the Red Keep friends under any circumstances, but it had been pleasant to sometimes sew and pass the news with other women. But the women whose company Sansa would have been inclined to seek out, such as once friendly Lady Leonette Tyrell, had made their disapproval plain. Sansa supposed she couldn’t blame them. 

She felt a rush of homesickness, and she thought of her last night in Winterfell. There had been a summer snow falling, and she and Jeyne Poole had spent the evening in women’s hot pools, drinking Dornish red wine and eating sap-sugar candy while the water steamed and the snow fell into their hair. 

There was new business, and Sansa forced herself to pay attention. A young lord of the Crownlands came forward in chains. He had been accused of debasing coinage with a lowborn conspirator who had already been hung for his crime. His young wife sobbed and clutched a baby to her breast. Aegon heard his confession of guilt and his request to be allowed to take the Black silently. His eyes flickered to Tyrion, who shrugged, then to Sansa. She nodded slightly. 

“Master of Laws?” the King asked. 

Garlan stepped forward. “Your Grace, the letter of the law for this offence requires that all lands and possessions of the guilty be attained to the Crown.”

Sansa gathered her skirts and rose. “Your Grace, Ser Garlan states the truth of the law. However, in the absence of your Queen I would speak for this criminal’s lady wife who should not suffer the consequences of her husband’s decisions. I ask for mercy.” 

“Your request is granted,” said Aegon. “The lady shall be granted a widow’s portion of the lands, and the same again for the support of her child. The remainder and all titles are attained. Further business?”

Sansa had been petrified to attend her first council meeting after the disastrous night Arianne had lost her child, and after Tyrion had rebuffed Aegon’s note on her behalf (she prayed that the refusal had been courteously worded). That side of things, at least, had resolved easily. Aegon had started the meeting by referring briskly to ‘recent embarrassing events,’ everyone had laughed, and they had gotten to business. Sansa had been so grateful to him she wanted to weep, and he had given her that look that always reminded her of Jon, not the way he was now, but the old laughing Jon from the long summer of her childhood, and she had felt that everything would be alright. She only wished the moment could have lasted.

Suddenly her attention was caught by Tyrion’s voice. “My king,” he said, stepping down before the throne. “May I present a visitor to your court? I have the honour to introduce a knight whose deeds are known throughout the realm, Sir Podrick Payne.”

Sansa looked up in shock, then delight. Tyrion met her eyes with a smirk, and there was no doubt in her mind that he had arranged this. 

“Be welcome at my court, Sir Podrick,” Aegon said formally, inclining his head. “I have heard songs sung of your prowess at arms. If you would favour me with a round at the training yard this afternoon, I would be pleased to test your skill.”

“Your grace does me honour,” Podrick said, staring at the floor.

“Oh, I expect to lose,” Aegon said with a smile. “Being knocked down by great knights is good for Kings. It reminds them of their limitations. Until then.” 

It was the last matter of the session. As court broke up, Sansa made her way across the room. Podrick went down on one knee as she approached, and she extended her hand for him to kiss. “Dear Pod,” she said. “Oh, do stand up.” She kissed his cheek as he obeyed her. 

Jorman clapped Podrick on the shoulder. “Good to see you, man. Go beat up the pretty boy, then we’ll get a cup of ale in a tavern.”

Tyrion scowled. “Don’t hurt him, unless you want a feral dragon flying around King’s Landing. I’ll join you for that cup of ale and pay for the night.” 

“But you shouldn’t let him lose, either,” counselled Sansa.

Podrick looked worried. “So I should …?”

“Don’t worry, man,” said Jorman. “I’ll trip you and break your leg if you look like you are in trouble either way.”

“My lady,” Podrick said formally, stumbling a bit over the words. “If I might escort you back to your chambers?”

“Suits me,” said Jorman jovially. “See you in the yard.”

Sansa took Podrick’s arm, and he slowed his pace to match hers, her movement encumbered by her court dress. “Is there somewhere we can talk without being overheard?” he said quietly in her ear. 

“In the Red Keep? Nothing has changed here except the players.” Sansa retorted, but she took him up to a walk in the open air, looking out to the ocean, where the breeze off the sea would carry their voices away from most listeners and where their movement would inconvenience lip-readers.

“What is the matter with Tyrion?” Podrick asked her urgently when she told him it was safe.

Sansa blinked, taken by surprise. “Nothing is wrong with Tyrion,” she said, unconvincingly even to her own ears. In truth, her husband had seemed so energetic, and she had been so preoccupied with other matters, that it had been easy for her to push the question of Tyrion’s declining health out of her mind. 

Podrick gave her a steady, disbelieving, look. 

“Very well, he has an illness, but he has been … fine.”

“Fine? Fine? Sansa, he could barely walk.”

“Keep your voice down!” She tightened her grip on Podrick’s arm. “He drinks too much, he always has, you know that as well as I. And he never walked well at the best of times. The Maesters say he could have years.” But she remembered what Tyrion’s words had been. ‘I won’t see autumn,’ he had said, not ‘I will live until autumn’. She had assumed …

Podrick shook his head. “I saw him six months ago, and the change is shocking. Sansa, he doesn’t look like a man who has years left.” 

She took a deep breath, and let it out. She saw Tyrion every day, if he was deteriorating so quickly she would have noticed. “Everyone dies,” she said. But even as she said the words, they felt unreal. She felt like her little husband would live forever, the last and best of the Lannisters who had dominated her childhood. She forced herself to keep walking, to keep her eyes looking out to sea.

“What happens then?” Podrick asked.

“The realm will continue much as it has, I imagine.” 

“That was not what I meant. What happens to you?”

“I will stay with him until the end.” she answered, deliberately misunderstanding his question. “Tyrion might actually find the need for a wife to manage his household in his last days.” She took a breath. “You have become a great knight, Podrick. You will have no trouble finding service anywhere you wish … but … I would like you to know Lady Ermensande of House Hayford. She is the sole member of her family. She has no brothers or father to protect her, and she is coming of an age where a lady alone may find a need for a champion. You would do well in her service.” The words hung between them and Sansa did not look at Podrick. “She will be able to afford to sponsor your horses and armour, to host minstrels who will sing of your deeds, just as I have done these last years.” 

“Sansa,” Podrick said, his voice breaking. 

“No sentiment,” she told him. “Our relationship has been mutually beneficial for many years. I have been very grateful for the duels you have fought on my behalf when my reputation was at issue, and I think you have no reason to think I have not been generous in return. But we both know that my ability to continue to be generous will diminish when Rickon marries and when Tyrion dies. You are very dear to me, Pod, and I would see you settled before that day comes.”

They were approaching the tower where she and Tyrion kept their rooms. She pressed his arm to let him know that they could no longer speak freely. Podrick nodded his understanding. He gave her his hand as she maneuvered the heavy skirts of her gown up the tower steps. “Now, if you are bored,” she said lightly, “You could go on a quest to find my sister, who is sailing over the edge of the world somewhere. You could take a ship from the docks and see the southern constellations and the Great Pyramid of Meereen, go to the festival of lights in Volentis. I could give you a few jewels to pay your passage.”

Podrick chuckled, but there was a sadness in his eyes. “I’ve spent most of my life on hopeless quests for Stark girls.”

“Think about what I have said.” Sansa kissed Podrick’s cheek and watched him descend the stairs of the tower, walking away from her. She turned away before he was out of sight. Podrick was sensible, as a coin-poor knight had to be. He would know that he could not risk his chances of patronage on her uncertain future. 

Brella was waiting for her. “My Lady,” she said hesitantly, and Sansa knew immediately that this was not good news. “The Queen has sent for you.”

Seven hells.

*** 

Arianne was pale, even days after the birth, and she lay on a couch with a blanket despite the heat. The curtains were drawn and there were no candles – the only light was a single shaft through a high window. Sansa remained in the shadows by the door after it closed behind her. The Queen had her eyes closed, her head back against a pillow. “I was not sure that you would come,” she said.

Sansa blinked, thrown off balance by this opening salvo. It had not occurred to her that she might have refused. She caught herself mentally, marshalled her defences, and glided forward. “Your grace,” she said, sinking into a curtsy. There was a moment of silence. “I am so, so sorry.”

“Do you think I care?” Arianne asked, her eyes snapping open. “The last time I gave birth my cousin Tyene took Aegon’s mind off things by bedding him. Aegon has had other women. Many of them, over the years. None of them had quite your spectacular lack of discretion.” Sansa sat frozen, equal parts mortification and shock, as Arianne’s lips twitched. Suddenly the Queen burst out in a peal of laughter. “Do you know what they call you? The Ice-Maiden of Winterfell. You chose an extraordinary time to break the reticence of a lifetime.”

“I was drunk,” Sansa said shortly, not laughing with the Queen. Arianne sobered.

“Please, sit down. I did not intend to make you uncomfortable. I fail to understand why a man and a woman may kiss and only the woman is expected to bear the shame. Any more than a man and a woman can make a child together, but the woman is to blame if it does not live.” Her face twisted, and Arianne slumped back onto her pillows. “I gave up being the heir to Dorne to be Aegon’s Queen and now they talk of setting me aside like a brood mare who cannot perform. You have been pilloried throughout the city for a few minutes’ thoughtlessness. Aren’t you angry?”

Sansa sat down on the chair by Arianne’s couch, arranging her skirts and marshalling her defences. She did not understand the Queen’s mood. “I am ashamed. This is not Dorne, Your Grace,” she said gently. Surely you have lived here long enough to understand that. I am not a young girl, and a lady must bear the consequences of her actions. I didn’t make the rules of the game, I just play by them.” She watched Arianne carefully. “I was surprised by your summons, as others will be. Some have said I should kneel to you in court and beg your forgiveness. 

Arianne rolled her eyes. “Do not be absurd.”

“If you asked, I would do it,” Sansa said calmly. “I’ve been on my knees before the Iron Throne before.” And almost everyone who was there is dead, she thought, and I am still alive. She put her hand on Arianne’s. “I am sorry for the loss of your children.”

Arianne nodded, her eyes shadowed. “He will try to put me aside,” she said bitterly. “My family will back me as much as they can, but in the end, he is still a Martell by right of his mother. He could do far worse than discard me, and they would never abandon him. Even I would never abandon him.” She shook her head, and smiled. “Was it worth it? He’s a very good kisser, isn’t he?”

Sansa jerked her hand away, and flushed deeply. “I … I … don’t know.”

Arianne stared.

“Tyrion kissed me at our wedding,” Sansa said hastily. “But …” Petyr kissed Alayne, she thought. Sansa had thought that the Hound kissed her in the fires of Blackwater, but that had been a lie her mind had told itself, although it still felt so real she could almost feel his breath on her cheek. “But …” she stumbled and stopped.

“I was drunk,” Sansa said again, wrapping her arms around herself. “Just drunk and foolish.”

“You don’t react to him like you do to other men,” Arianne observed curiously. “You are afraid of men.”

Sansa stood abruptly, stepped back. “We are not enemies, are we my Queen?” she asked.

“We are not enemies,” Arianne said.

“Then don’t do this. Don’t ask me these questions. Some things are so badly broken that they can never be fixed.” Arianne opened her mouth, and Sansa held out her hand to stop her. “No. There is nothing you can do to help me. I don’t need anyone’s help. Just leave me the peace I have found.” She dropped into a curtsy. “My Queen,” she said, and glided from the room, closing the door behind her.


	7. The Council Meets

“Sansa, you don’t have to be here for this,” Tyrion told her softly outside the door of the small council chamber. 

“I must speak for Jon if necessary. This affects him too,” she replied. She stood by Tyrion’s side, drawing comfort from his presence, as the other councillors gathered, and they waited for their king. 

Just as Aegon arrived with his Kingsguard escorts trailing behind him, there was a commotion. Tyene Sand appeared in soft white robes. She had a piece of parchment in her hand. “Queen Arianne is too ill to rise from her bed, but I have her authority to take her seat on the council. She wishes to be heard on this matter,” Tyene announced sweetly, her eyes on Tyrion. She did not even look at Sansa. The Queen might not bear ill-will, but her cousin was another matter. Tyene had made her disdain plain, and Sansa felt a rush of shame every time she looked at the Sand Snake.

“I am sorry, my lady,” Tyrion said. “But the Queen has no formal position on this council, and your presence is not required by the King.”

Aegon’s face was hard. “Cousin, please do not make this more difficult than it is already.” 

The doors of the council chamber closed in Tyene’s face, and the council members took their seats. Sansa silently seated herself at Tyrion’s left hand. He gave her leg a reassuring pat.

“We all know why we are here,” Aegon said. “The Red Keep is buzzing with rumours. Let what is being said be heard by all the council.”

“The council has nothing but respect for the Queen,” Garlan said carefully. “This is distasteful to all of us. But it must be said that the Queen is past thirty and she has lost three children in a row. If she is unable to give the throne an heir, then you must petition the Faith to set her aside. If you are going to do that, for the stability of the realm, the best thing would be to do it immediately and marry again quickly.”

“Don’t beat around the bush, Tyrell,” snapped Robter. “Your sister Margaery was Queen three times, and now you’re parading that Hightower girl around.” 

“If it comes to that then, Alys is both beautiful and kin to two great houses, Tyrell and Hightower,” Garlan retorted. “The match has much to recommend it. Your grace is already bound to Dorne by your mother’s blood. Arianne brought you swords when you fought for your crown, and that should not be forgotten. However, now you need alliances to unite your realm.”

Davos Seaworth sighed. “I don’t like saying it, but after seven years of marriage things don’t look good. What about Prince Jon? If he were to wed and father sons that could sit the throne, then you could afford to gamble on giving the Queen more time.”

“I don’t give a damn about who sits on the Iron Throne,” Robter replied. “Right now we have two Targaryens and two dragons. I want to know who is going to sit on the dragons if anything happens to Jon or to your grace.”

Tyrion stirred. “The answer is that I don’t know. I translated the old spells, but we have no idea if we have duplicated what the old Valyrians used, or even how those spells truly worked. We do know that one dragon was only ever bound to one rider, a Targaryen rider. Does anyone want to experiment with the population of King’s Landing at stake?”

There was a silence around the table as they contemplated that. Sansa thought of the bleak dead island she had seen on the voyage south, and then of the children running the streets of Kind’s Landing. She imagined those children burning in the dragonfire.

Garlan’s face was pale, and Sansa imagined he was thinking of his two small children. “I hope your grace is careful on the stairs.”

“Thank you for your concern,” said Aegon wryly. “I am truly touched by the affection.” He settled back, a look of vague amusement on his face, but Sansa knew he was watching them all, weighing everything said carefully, thinking, considering the alternatives.

“What about Jon,” Davos asked. “If he won’t come here, could a suitable lady be persuaded to journey to the Wall?”

Sansa wondered if they should just suggest shipping Alys Hightower (a refined, bookish girl) north like a sack of potatoes, greasing her up with pig-fat, and tossing her into Jon’s quarters. Then she envisioned Jon’s face at the scenario and had a wild desire to break out into a peal of hysterical laughter. 

She repressed the urge, realizing that they were all looking to her. “Jon’s grief for Daenerys ran so deep it was almost a madness.” Sansa said. “To attempt to bring pressure on him to marry a stranger would be futile. There is nothing that you can threaten him with. You could attempt persuasion, if you could bring him to listen, but you have nothing he wants.”

“Then the council must look for solutions elsewhere,” Tyrion said briskly. “But I think we need not haggle over candidates for the next Queen at present.”

Ser Gerald Corbray, the mostly silent Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, cleared his throat, “With all respect, Lord Lannister, we are here to air what is being said behind closed doors, to prevent conflict festering. We’ve heard of Alys Hightower, and others speak of your own cousin Janei Lannister, but both ladies can only bring ties to a single kingdom. There should be another name on the table. Arya Stark. The girl is untied and of marriageable age, and close kin to three of the Lords Paramount.”

“Arya Stark,” the Grandmaster’s voice was thick with horror. “I met her once at Riverrun. She asked me to pass the salt at dinner and I nearly pissed myself right at the table.” He flushed. “My apologies, Lady Sansa. I mean no disrespect to your sister.”

“I know my sister,” Sansa said. “Your grace, if you have the means to locate Arya, and if you could convince her to wed, you would have the family’s gratitude. But she would never be able to find happiness in this place.”

Robert Storm snorted. “Who cares about the girl’s happiness? All she needs to do is get bedded and breed healthy sons. For that matter, who cares about the woman’s agreement to the match? That would be Prince Jon’s decision as Regent of the North.”

Aegon shook his head. “Lord Storm, you are speaking of a highborn woman and Lady Sansa’s sister. I will not hear such further disrespect, am I clear?” He looked around the table, meeting the eyes of each of his councillors. “But the Lord Commander is right. We should discuss all the possibilities. Lady Sansa, for a renowned matchmaker, you have been very silent.” He paused. “Surely there are other names to be considered.”

The question hung between them in the air. Aegon knows, Sansa thought. He knows that Arya would make a terrible Queen, he knows that Tyrion is dying, he knows that I will be widowed and will be marriageable again. I know what he is thinking – what he is asking – because it is what I would be thinking in his place.

She could see it, the future that she had once thought to have, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. The first time it had laid before her she had been a thoughtless child with no conception of what it might have meant. Now she was a woman grown, and she could see that path clearly. She felt the breath constrict in her lungs in sudden panic, and she pressed her hands flat on the table to hide their trembling.

“No,” Sansa said to him, softly, both a plea and a warning. “No.”

“I see,” Aegon said softly. His gaze held hers for a moment, his violet eyes shadowed, and then he looked away, but she was no fool to think that this was over. “Then this meeting is –“

“Actually, there is a name that should be under consideration,” Sansa said quietly, the words spilling from her lips almost without conscious thought. “Arianne Martell, the Queen of Westeros.” Her words fell into a sudden silence, as the other council members looked at her in dismay, and Tyrion grasped her knee in silent warning.

“Nobody enjoys this, Lady Sansa,” the king said, a flash of true anger in his eyes. “You do not need to lecture us like we are children.” 

She found herself unable to stop, driven by ten years of pent-up fear and misery, of disillusionment and anger. “You told us to speak freely,” she said quietly. “Arianne is your Queen,” she continued. “Whom your grace took to wife in the Great Sept of Baelor and who has given you five children. Now you want to send her back like a lame tourney-horse that isn’t worth the money you paid for her.” Tyrion was trying to catch her eye, and he shook his head, but she ignored him. “Another match would be an affront to the Gods and an insult to every woman in Westeros.”

“That is enough,” Aegon snapped. “Lady Sansa, you are here on my sufferance and in the place of the Prince, who cannot be bothered to attend to the affairs of the realm he is heir to. If you cannot control yourself, then you have my leave to depart from this meeting.”

“Your grace,” Sansa said quietly. She pushed her chair back. The room was quiet as a pin as she walked out, her steps echoing on the stone floor.

***

After her outburst in the small council room, Sansa had not dared to shirk court. She had, however, chosen to take a low profile and seat herself in the balcony where the ladies were inclined to watch court rather than in her usual place near the throne. Thus far, nobody had protested either her presence or her placement. Presumably word had spread that she was out of favour, although hopefully not the reasons for it. She had been grateful when Podrick and Ermensande had come to sit with her, giving Sansa at least two friendly faces nearby, as well as Jorman the Bear at her back. 

Arianne was back in court, in her accustomed place by the side of the throne, but she and Aegon did not speak and only looked at each other rarely. The Queen had clearly dressed carefully for this occasion, in flowing golden robes embroidered with the sun and spear of Dorne and a crown of gold and rubies. Nobody could look at her, thought Sansa, and not remember that she could have been the ruling princess of Dorne. She was as beautiful as ever, with her thick dark hair and color in her cheeks. Whether the color was real, or a matter of artifice, was impossible to say. The message was clear – Arianne was still young, still ready to be the mother of heirs. She would fight for her crown.

Looking around the court, Sansa was dismayed to see that the number of Dornishmen at court seemed to have doubled overnight. The throne room was packed, with many unfamiliar faces also wearing the colours of the Reach, and even a few new Lannister lords. The jackels are gathering, she thought. Worse, the lords of different regions were glaring distrustfully at each other.

Suddenly, Ermensande touched Sansa’s arm. “The man in Tyrell colors, standing beside the skull of Vhagar. Who is he?”

From the excellent vantage point of the gallery, Sansa identified the courtier easily enough, and stared a little. She could see why the man had attracted Ermensande’s attention. He is handsome, Sansa thought, like a knight out of a song. She disliked the man instantly. His clothes were well made, but plain. Too plain for an appearance at court, she thought. Most of the Reach lords were overly ornate in their choice of clothing. He did not speak to any of the lords around him. “I don’t know him,” she said.

Podrick frowned. “He’s watching the Queen.”

“This is court, Pod. Everyone watches the King and the Queen.” Sansa looked at the man again, and saw that Podrick was right. He was staring at Arianne. “Most likely he is a petitioner, but we can find out after the session.”

“He doesn’t look like a man of the Reach,” Podrick said. “He looks Dornish.” He held up his hand as Sansa started to object. “I know there is plenty of Dornish blood in the Reach, but that’s in the south. His sigil is from Old Oak, near the border with the Westerlands. Not much Dornish blood up there. I am going to go and get close to him.”

Without waiting for a reply, he hurried down the stairs to the floor of the throne room. Sansa mentally cursed. If she had been in her usual space it would have been no trouble to silently catch the eye of one of the Kingsguard, but up here she had no way to call for help without making a scene. That was the last thing she needed. Hopefully, she thought, Podrick will find that the man is a Tyrell bannerman with a Dornish mother and a slim pocketbook. 

She watched Podrick cross the floor, approaching the Tyrell man. He caught his arm and said something in his ear.

It all happened in an instant, and it was done before Sansa could process what was going on. There was a flash of steel in the man’s hand and suddenly Podrick was on the ground, and there were shouts and the clash of steel, and Podrick was on the ground and he wasn’t moving, and people running, and Podrick wasn’t moving and there was a rapidly spreading stain of red on his shirt.

“Sansa, no!” she heard Ermensande voice through the clamour, and Jorman swore. There was fighting on the floor, but she couldn’t tell who it was. She could only see Podrick. She felt a hand try to grab her sleeve, but she wrenched it free and started to run. There was a press of people streaming up the stairs to the balcony, stampeding to get off the floor, and she knew she could never push her way down. Instead she swung her legs over the stone edge and jumped. 

She hit the floor with a jolt that drove the breath from her body. She found herself on her hands and knees. The Kingsguard had their swords drawn about the King and Queen, but here there was just pushing and yelling and the flash of swords and knives. Podrick was on the other side of the room, and he still wasn’t moving, and now the blood was a pool around him.

Sansa scrambled to her feet, gathered her skirts up, and dashed towards him. She ducked at the sound of a clash of steel somewhere close to her, but then she was sliding onto her knees next to Podrick. His face was ashen, but he was breathing, small shuddery breaths, and she almost wept with relief that he was alive. “Hold on, Pod, just hold on.” The blood was on his chest and arm. She grabbed the hem of her dress and shoved the fabric against the wounds, pressing her hands into the wounds and holding. The cloth soaked red almost immediately. 

“Fool girl!” Jorman swore above her, and she stared up at him as he smashed his shield into an oncoming sword, then into the wielder’s head. A scream burst from her lips, and she buried her face in Pod’s shoulder in terror as a body hit the ground not two feet away from her. “Just keep breathing, Pod,” she wept, and all she knew was that she had to keep the pressure on, so she did. 

And then something touched her shoulder, and she shrieked and cowered against Podrick’s chest in terror. “Sansa, it’s all right. It’s all over.” She blinked, and focused on Jorman’s face. The throne room had gone quiet, she suddenly realized. Bless the Seven, there was a maester hurrying towards them. 

“Keep the pressure there, if you would, my lady,” the man said a calm voice, kneeling beside them. She did as she was told until the man dressed the wound and pushed her bloodstained hands away, telling her it was time to give them room. 

Jorman helped her to her feet. The throne room was almost deserted, and a member of the Kingsguard stood at the door to bar entry. The maester was still working on Podrick, but his movements were less urgent and Pod was still breathing. He was still breathing. 

By the throne, Arianne was shaking and Tyene had her arm around her cousin’s shoulders. Aegon was still seated on the throne. He looked as if he had barely shifted position in the chaos of the fight, and his face was calm and remote. For a moment, his gaze met Sansa’s, and there was a flash of anger, before he turned away to speak to Arianne and Tyene.

Ermensande was standing nearby, her face ashen and her small body trembling like a leaf. “Everything is all right now,” Sansa said softly to her. The girl’s face crumpled. She stepped towards Sansa, holding out her arms for an embrace. Whether it was to seek comfort or offer it, Sansa could not tell. Sansa stepped back. “No. I’m all covered in blood.” Distantly she wondered if her maids would be able to get the blood out of the fabric, or if she would need to order a replacement dress. Jon would be cross at the expense, she thought with a detached part of her mind. Ermensande just shook her head, put her arms around Sansa and held on so tight Sansa almost couldn’t breathe.

“What were you thinking, you stupid girl?” Jorman demanded.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

“Leave her alone,” Ermensande said, still holding Sansa. She reached up and patted Sansa’s shoulder. 

Sansa felt herself begin to shake. Blood, it is blood on my hands. Podrick’s blood. Her skirts were wet with it, the fabric clinging to her skin. For the first time she realized that there were still bodies on the floor, other smears of blood. She stared at her hands, with thick clotted gore under the nails. Her fingers were trembling, she realized. Her vision narrowed, and went dark, and she didn’t even feel herself hit the floor.


	8. The Spider in the Dark

To Jon of the House Targaryen, Prince of the Realm, Regent of Winterfell, Warden of the North, Guardian of the Wall and the Lands Beyond, and Dragonrider to Visarion the Fleet.

Do those titles mean anything to you, Jon? Why have you not responded to my letters?

I write from the bedside of Podrick, who was nearly killed in fighting in the throne room, in the very presence of the King and Queen. He will live, the maesters say, although they cannot tell me if he will make a full recovery. We do not know what caused the fight, or how weapons were smuggled into the presence of the royal couple. Varys tells us that the man who nearly killed Podrick was a Ser Gerold Dayne, called the Darkstar. He has a grudge against Arianne and the Martells dating back to the war. Perhaps his actions were no more than that old enmity, and an effort to put the blame on the Tyrells, but I cannot believe it. I feel that this conflict is only the beginning of something bigger. The houses are withdrawing from each other, and courtiers who were once friends are looking at each other with distrust. I have not seen battle as you have, but I have known conflict. The court feels like the feast at Joffrey’s wedding, like the Eyrie before Lysa Arryn fell from the moon door.

It feels like the Red Keep before Father lost his head.

I am afraid, but of what I do not know. Fear of the dragon prevents outright rebellion. Yet our history has taught us that war has come to Westeros even after the arrival of the dragons. I understand now why you fear that the Others will come again: it feels as if wars never truly end, as if the War of the Five Kings began in Robert’s Rebellion, which began in the Defiance at Duskendale, back to the Blackfire Rebellion and the Dance of the Dragons and even back to whatever ill fate caused the Doom of Valyria. 

Reading what I have written, I must sound mad to you. I am like a frightened child jumping at shadows, when there is nothing in the darkness but I do not dare light a flame.

The court is travelling to Harrenhal for a moon, ostensibly for a harvest celebration and a tourney, although I suspect Aegon wishes to send a message to the court about what dragonfire can do. There is no greater reminder in the realm than the melted towers of Harrenhal. Hopefully reconvening the court in a new location will change the dark mood that has fallen on all of us. You can reach me by raven there. Please.

By my hand, Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, Advisor to the Council of King Aegon the Sixth of His Name

*** 

Most of the keep was silent and dark. Sansa had placed the letter, sealed with her own mark of the direwolf ringed by snowflakes and lilies, into the hands of the maester herself, not daring to trust it to a servant. Then she had waited to see it secured to the bird and watched the bird fly north. Despite the warmth of the summer night, she shivered as she made her way back to the Tower of the Hand, a Lannister guardsman at her side. When had a Lannister man come to mean safety, she wondered, and everyone else danger.

Aegon had been in one of his moods ever since the fight in the throne room. He had been impatient in public and openly temperamental in the council room. Although Sansa knew he was almost frighteningly organized when he chose to be, he had seemed to take a mercurial pleasure in throwing the court into chaos in the preparations for the move to Harrenhal. She was only grateful that he seemed to be making an effort to spare Tyrion the worst of his ill-humour. 

As she passed the door to the throneroom, she saw a flicker of light through the crack, as if from a single candle in the darkness. She gestured to the guard to wait outside, and stepped into the room. The dragon skulls were mere shadows in the gloom, the hint of long teeth and staring empty eyes following her as she walked across the stone floor to where a dark figure was standing alone. “Lord Varys,” she greeted him.

“Lady Stark,” he replied. “Did your bird get away safely?”

“Do you not know the answer to that question? I thought the Spider knew every thought in the mind of every person in King’s Landing.”

“You of all people know the limitations of information gathering. A reputation for knowledge is sometimes more powerful than the thing itself.” Varys said. “I was never the man that rumour made me, and I am no longer what I was ten years ago. Age catches up with all of us.” He paused, and his face, illuminated from below by the light, was sad. “Of course, some of us, like our mutual friend, never receive the opportunity to grow old.”

Sansa looked away from him, surveying the dark throne room. Even in the vast space, the skulls took up much of the floor, turning what had once been open and airy into a network of shadowed corners and hidden spaces. “Do you come here often, alone in the night?” she asked. “To think about your past and all your misdeeds?”

“Misdeeds? I have, in the end, been victorious,” Varys said calmly. “I defeated or outlived my enemies, and I placed my chosen king on the throne.”

“And is Aegon all that you dreamed he would be?” she asked, giving Varys a sidelong glance. 

“We all know he is not. We tried to raise the perfect ruler, and we forgot that he was a man as well. But he is a good king and the best hope for the realm.”

“If you cared about the realm, you would have left Robert Baratheon or Tommen on the throne. Nothing they could have done would have been worse than the war.” She stepped away from him, towards the skull of Balerion the Dread, and slipped into its jaws. Clad in dark grey, she knew his light-blinded eyes would no longer be able to follow her as she entered the shadows. “Westeros burned and bled, froze and starved because you and Petyr played the game of thrones. He lit the match and you fanned the flames.” She ran her hand over one of the fangs, her touch sliding smoothly on the black bone. As tall as she was, it still came higher than her shoulder. “I used to think the two of you were so clever with all your schemes. But creating chaos? That is child’s play. I could set this realm to war in a week if I wanted to. Building things that can last is far more difficult.”

“Our motivations and methods may differ, but our goals have never been incompatible, Lady Sansa.”

“I defend myself and the people I love,” she answered sharply, moving into another dragon skull, making her way toward the skull of Vhagar, the place where Podrick had fallen. “I make no moves unless I am sure of their consequences. I limit myself to the North. I don’t harm people. How easy it would be if one did not love, did not fear.”

“You think I do not love Aegon? I am his, as much as you are Jon’s. And I think you are no more blind to Jon’s faults than I am to Aegon’s. Jon is not what he once was, we both know that. He has isolated himself from friends and allies. He knows nothing of the realm except the North, and he cares less. He is a dragonrider more in name than in reality.”

The dragons and the dragonlords, she thought. And all the rest of us just pieces to be moved about and discarded from the game as they wish. What were these creatures that Varys had set loose on the world, she wondered. What had he imagined that he was doing so long ago when he had arranged for the dragon eggs to be given to Daenerys Targaryen on her wedding day?

Sansa felt cold and tired at the thought of Daenerys, the fiery mother of dragons whom she had never met, but who had taken so much of Jon into the grave with her. Daenerys had come to Westeros so briefly, had saved and destroyed so much in her brief time.

“What is the point of comparing Aegon and Jon?” She asked. “Aegon is too stubborn to swallow his pride and go to Jon at the Wall, and Jon is … well, too stubborn to come to Aegon. There is nothing to bring them together.” They were alike in more than mannerisms, she thought. Both of them clever, controlled, ruthless. Even the streak of bitterness in Aegon had its echo in Jon’s touchiness about his bastard status. She thought about how she had taunted Jon with that at the Wall, and felt a rush of shame. 

“Perhaps,” said Varys. “Perhaps not. The last of the Targaryens, the sons of Rheagar whose folly brought down a dynasty – they will meet sooner or later. Do you think they will meet as friends and brothers, or as enemies? If they quarrel, what happens to the rest of us?” Varys shrugged. “Or would they unite, to ensure another dozen generations of dragonlords on the Iron Throne?”

“Jon has no interest in playing the Game of Thrones.”

“None of us are given a choice about whether we play the Game of Thrones. Only about whether we win or lose.” 

“All your plans and schemes are just gossamer, Spider. One gust of wind would shred them,” she said. She reached the skull of Vhagar, stepped out into the light on the spot where Podrick fell. “Was Darkstar trying to kill the Queen? Truly?”

“Why do you ask me?” Varys smiled. “No matter what the answer, you would not believe it. But for what it is worth, I don’t know. My little birds have found no trace of him, and I know your efforts have met with no more success than mine.”

“He was wearing Tyrell colours. If he had not been identified, the blame might have fallen on the Tyrells. Perhaps Garlan would no longer be Hand of the King, his cousin Alys banished from court. Or maybe the accusation might be that it was a set up. Davos Seaworth angling for the position of Hand, or the Lannisters attempting to make Janei Queen. Or the sister of Arya Stark, recently out of favour in the court, might take the blame.”

Varys shrugged. “All possible. Or maybe it was just one clever Dornishman with a grudge and a talent for creating chaos. Does it matter when and a good man lies close to death.” He hesitated. “I do offer my condolences, Lady Stark.”

“To whom?” Sansa asked. “Podrick has no family, no holdings. He sleeps in ditches as often in palaces. If he dies, few will mourn his passing.”

“I offer them to you.”

Sansa turned away sharply. “Not to me,” she said. “I have no claim on Podrick.”

“Just because I am less than a man, you think I do not understand? We both know that there is no possible future in which the Lady of Winterfell could marry the son of an itinerant squire.” His face was compassionate. “I imagine your brother’s bannermen would burn Winterfell back to the ground if you tried. But after what happened in this room, no one could doubt your feelings. Just as everyone can see the King’s … regard for you. Tell me, Lady Sansa, what will you do, if peace between the two brothers rests on you?”

Sansa walked back towards him as he sat on the steps with his little candle. She stopped in front of him, smiled without speaking. Then she leaned over and, with a gentle breath, blew out his candle. “Good night, Lord Varys,” she said over her shoulder, making her way back to the door, moving easily through the darkness. “If I do not see you before the court leaves for Harrenhal, farewell.”

“Goodbye, Lady Stark.”

***

Podrick’s sickroom was close to Tyrion’s quarters. She slipped in quietly, and dismissed the Septa who had been watching over him as soon as the woman told her that there was no sign of fever returning. When she was alone, Sansa collapsed down into her chair and buried her face in her hands. She could cry, she thought, for herself, for Arianne, for Podrick, for all the smallfolk who would suffer if things fell apart, even for Aegon and Jon, but what would be the use of tears? 

When Tyrion dies, she thought bitterly, I become the property of the North, for the Regent to dispose of as he wishes. If you had to choose, Jon, whose brother would you be? She wondered. 

Podrick’s breath was deep and even, and when she put her hand to his forehead it was cool. May the Mother be kind and the Smith guide the work of the maesters, she prayed silently. May the faces in the trees smile on him. The danger had passed, and she had this one thing to be thankful for. She slid her hand up to touch the dark waves of his hair, to trace the curve of his skull and feel the heartbeat that pulsed in his neck. Had she ever touched a sleeping man like this? Perhaps when she had been very tiny and crawled into bed with Robb or Jon. Now it would be possible only in a sickroom, only in these few precious stolen hours. 

The bed was narrow, but there was space beside Podrick. With a glance at the door, she kicked off her slippers and lay down on the featherbed, gently so as not to disturb him. The sheets were still wet from his sweat. How much time passed she did not know, but finally she felt her eyes grow heavy, and she fell asleep curled up next to him, and she dreamed.

The night was peaceful and rich with smells and she was not afraid. Part of Sansa had been distressed, had raged and cried out, but then there had been a drink that tasted strange and that part of her was still there, but it had gone numb and quiet and was just watching. She was glad, because she knew something had been wrong but now that had passed. Everything was fine. 

A man was walking towards her, and she knew him. Father, she thought happily. He looked tired and sad. Sansa wished she could make him feel better, and she opened her mouth to speak but no words came out. Why couldn’t she speak? But it didn’t seem to bother Father, so she didn’t worry about it. He sat down next to her and touched her hair, said her name. She smiled back at him. They sat together in the night and she was glad to be with him. 

And then there was another man there and she knew him too. Jory. He was her friend, but there was something in his hands. He handed the thing to her father. The numb, distant part of her stirred at the sight of it, tried to scream but no sound came out. Then the steel was at her throat and she died in a rush of blood.


	9. A Tourney at Harrenhal

The wheelhouse rocked as it rolled over another stone. Sansa adjusted the pillow under Tyrion’s head and put a hand on his forehead. He batted it away irritably. “Stop fussing over me,” he grumbled. 

“Shut up and save your strength,” Sansa told him, but without rancour. It felt like her mood was improving with every day they rode further from the Red Keep. Even her husband’s growing fatigue and irritability could not dent her good humour.

The Small Council had split, with Tyrion, Garlan, and Sansa travelling with the court, and Davos Seaworth being left in charge in King’s Landing with Robter and Varys to assist. Davos and Robter had been hard-pressed to conceal how much they were looking forward to several weeks without the presence of the highborn council members “fussing about” as Robter had been heard to say. She suspected that the two of them would have most of the problems of the realm sorted out before the rest of the council returned.

Harrenhal was a week’s hard riding from the capital, which meant that the court was taking more than two weeks to cover the distance. Garlan was in charge of the progress of several hundred nobility, with associated households, baggage, horses, and wagons. On many days, Sansa had ridden out with Ermensande and other young girls of the court to escape the press of people. 

Since they had turned west off the Kingsroad, they had travelled through thinly populated lands, under blue skies and through lush forests and meadows. These areas had once been thick with villages and farms, but most of the inhabitants had fled or met worse fates during the war and the winter that followed. A few hardy smallfolk had returned to work the rich farmlands around the lake. When they rode past settlements, rosy-cheeked young children ran out and pointed with excitement, while their elders, who might have scarred faces or missing limbs, tried to keep them out of the eyes of the nobility. A few days ago they had ridden over a hill thick with sheep and lambs, and seen the deep blue of the vast Gods Eye lake stretched before them.

Blissfully, Sansa and Tyrion had successfully managed to avoid each other for most of the trip, but she had joined him in the wheelhouse for their arrival at Harrenhal to give the appearance of unity. Now she dipped her fur-tipped brush into the pot, and briskly applied powder to Tyrion’s cheeks and temples. He flinched away. “What is that stuff?” He grumbled. “Is that face paint?”

“Of course not,” Sansa said indignantly. “I am the Lady of Winterfell and descended from eight thousand years of the Kings of Winter. You think I colour my face like one of your whores?” She scrutinized him, decided he still looked pale, and added some more powder to his temples. Most of the nobility of the south would be at this festival, including the Lannister cousins, and neither she nor Tyrion wanted them to suspect how ill he truly was.

“I just hope Aegon is there,” Tyrion fretted. “I don’t know where he is, and I get nervous when I don’t know where he is or what he is doing. Two weeks unsupervised, and he has a dragon. He could have been sleeping under the stars at Summerhall and writing poetry, drinking cheap wine and playing strip-cyvasse to lose in a brothel, or flying up to the Wall to challenge Jon to a fist-fight.”

Sansa reflected that they would be able to determine if the last possibility had occurred based on whether Aegon had any teeth left. “That is assuming he could get Jon’s attention.”

“How is he?” Tyrion asked, his eyes sharp. 

Sansa smiled. “Well,” she said cheerfully. “Very busy with the reconstruction of the Wall, very uninterested in everything we are doing here. He sends you his regards.” Tyrion looked sceptically at her, but she was grateful when he didn’t pursue the issue. 

An hour later, the court reached Harrenhal. Sansa stepped out of the wheelhouse, and stared at the castle. She had been told that Harrenhal was as vast as it was ruined, but she had never expected anything like the sight that lay before her. The sun had just set, and the towers gleamed against a deep purple sky while bats wheeled overhead. The surface of the stone was oddly smooth where it had melted like wax under dragon-breath, and the towers themselves had clearly sagged and dripped like candles before the onslaught. 

Sansa shuddered at the thought of the people inside those towers and how they had died. Harren the Black had been a cruel king, she knew, killing thousands of enslaved riverlanders in the construction of the castle and sacrificing sacred weirwood for beams in the construction. Still, she wondered what manner of conqueror could be capable of such mercilessness to anyone. The Dragonlords had nearly completed their conquest of Westeros before they attacked Harrenhal, would a demonstration of their power not have been sufficient? Instead, they had chosen to engulf the castle and all its inhabitants in the flames.

She knew that some of the courtiers were unhappy about this excursion, and whispered of the curse of Harrenhal. Sansa had scoffed; the only curses she feared were those created by the actions of men. But now that she was here, she had an awed sense of the power in this place, built in the sight of one of the holiest places of the Old Gods. For all the horrors she knew the castle had seen, she felt no malice in its power, only a sense of watchfulness and a breath in the air that was like the whisper of something ancient and forgotten. 

The huge yard was bustling with the arrival of the court, and there were plainly many lords already in attendance for the festivities. The sigils of the houses already present were proudly displayed, alongside the personal arms of the lords and knights who had attended. Sansa’s heart lifted at the sight of the Rose of Highgarden, indicating that Willas and Myranda had come, as well as her Uncle Edmure’s leaping trout. Her own arms of the direwolf with a snowflake indicating her status as the current lord’s sister was just being lifted into place. There was no sign of Roslin’s personal arms: the twin towers combined with the trout. Sansa was pleased that the Frey had decided to stay in Riverrun. She looked about eagerly for her uncle, but her heart sank at the sight approaching her. Lannisters.

A quick glance at Tyrion showed her husband looking equally dismayed, as Martyn Lannister and Joy Hill swept down on them, Janei trailing behind. Sansa and Tyrion looked at each other, then by unspoken agreement, looked around for an escape route. Nothing better than crawling under the wheelhouse being available, they were forced to endure the overly-enthusiastic greetings of the Lannister cousins. Sansa found herself swept into a very close, very intrusive, very touchy hug by Joy which seemed mostly intended to detect any signs that she might be pregnant. (Joy was close to Martyn, and Sansa’s recent co-habitation with Tyrion had been the source of much consternation by the putative heir to Casterly Rock.) Sansa sourly reflected that Tyrion had gotten less of a feel on their wedding night.

Salvation appeared in the form of a Maester distributing dispatches and letters. Sansa heard her own name called out, and seized her chance. Tyrion gave her a surly glare as she abandoned him, took the letter, and fled into the castle. Inside was as busy as outside, with so many visitors forced into the habitable areas of the castle. Sansa was in the process of looking for a servant who could give her a wet cloth to scrub the Lannister off herself when she glanced at the letter she was carrying and her breath caught. It bore the seal of Castle Black. Jon! 

She broke the seal and sat down on a bench to read. 

To Lady Sansa Stark, from Maester Samwell Tarly of Castle Black

I apologize on behalf of Prince Jon for his failure to reply to your recent letters. Regretfully, I must advise you that Jon suddenly departed for the waste north of the Wall on Viserion shortly after you rode south. Although it is not the first time he has left us in this manner, he has always returned in a matter of weeks. This time he has been absent for months, and although riders have seen Viserion flying in the distance, they have found no trace of Jon.

If you will forgive my presumption, I assist Jon in his correspondence and in that capacity I have read all your letters from King’s Landing. The contents of your last letter troubled me greatly. Although we do not know each other well, I do not believe you are a woman who is subject to harbouring fears without good reason. If your instincts tell you that there is danger then you should listen to them. My family are the Tarlys and as a man of the Reach, I know that the Martells make bad enemies. 

If your position at court has become precarious, I urge you to leave without ceremony and seek the protection of your cousin Robert Arryn in the Vale or your Uncle Edmure at Riverrun. Trust that I speak for Jon in this matter. It was never his intention to send you into danger. I do not know what passed between you and Jon when you visited the Wall, but I saw Jon after, and I know that he was deeply grieved. I suspect that harsh words were exchanged on both sides.

Jon is your brother, Lady Sansa, and he loves you. Do what you must to guard yourself. I am confident that he will return to us.

Sansa stared at the letter, dismayed. Jon was missing? Where had he gone? And to send her south and vanish from the Wall … she could not believe that Jon had survived all the battles at the Wall only to meet mischance in the woods … but what was the alternative? That he had sent her to his brother’s court and simply forgotten about her? No. She could never believe that of Jon, she thought. 

But a treacherous little voice in the back of her mind said that there had been a time she had thought that Robb would always rescue her from danger, and how wrong she had been proven. She held the letter in her hands and fought back tears. She was not a stupid girl, she reminded herself. She was a woman grown and could take care of herself.

Tarly’s suggestion that she leave court was, of course, absurd and she dismissed it out of hand. Even in the unlikely event Aegon would grant her permission to leave with the Martell crisis brewing, she could never leave Tyrion now. She sighed, looking at the end of Tarly’s letter again. Harsh words, he called that stupid, wretched fight on the Wall. His reassurances were kindly meant, she knew, but she had given Jon every reason to hate her. If only she had gone back and said she was sorry, but that chance had vanished and she could never take back what had been said. 

She took a deep breath, folded the letter away, and went to find someone who could guide her to her chambers.

**** 

Sansa sat between Tyrion and Ermensande in the stands, waiting for the jousters to assemble. The squires were running to and fro, helping the knights with their armour, carrying lances, and ensuring lances and shields were close at hand before the tilting began. The spectators were in good spirits – half the nobility of the area was here. She exchanged waves with Myranda and Willas – the crippled Lord of Highgarden was not riding, but several of the horses he had bred and trained were in the lists today.

Sansa had spent an enjoyable previous evening with her uncle Edmure, who had astonished her with the news that he and Roslin had been invited to visit Winterfell – by Rickon. “Best thing Jon did,” Edmure had said, “giving that boy a bit of responsibility to level him out. Robb was leading armies when not much older.” Sansa had been stunned by the news that Rickon had been holding things together in the North, and that he was thinking of suggesting a marriage to Lyanna Mormont. Although Sansa had known that this day would come, she had never thought that she might lose the title of Lady of Winterfell before she ever managed to return there.

Suddenly Ermensande grabbed Sansa’s arm. “A mystery knight,” she breathed, her eyes shining with excitement. Following her gaze, Sansa saw the knight in question already ahorse at the end of the lines. Mystery knights always caused excitement among the spectators – they could be anyone from a famous jouster to a lowly squire. It was a risky strategy, though. A mystery knight garnered attention, and one who was unmasked after suffering a humiliating defeat might find the resulting reputation hard to live down.

This knight had more than the usual amount of coin, that much was clear. A pure black stallion, its glossy coat shining in the sun, stood steady under the knight’s thighs, and the knight wore gold-washed armour. The man was of no more than average height and slimly built. Sansa wondered if it might be Loras Tyrell, who often rode as a mystery knight and hid the ruins of his once-handsome face.

There was a sudden clamour of voices raised in shock and fear. A shadow passed over the tourney grounds as Rhaegal soared silently overhead, barely higher than the tops of the flags on the knight’s pavilions. Horses neighed and reared. One of the knights lost his seat, falling to the ground with a clang of armour. Rhaegal flapped his wings, and the sudden downdraft whipped Sansa’s skirts and blew her hair into her eyes. When she brushed it back, she saw that the dragon had landed in the centre of the jousting field, and Aegon was standing by his side in riding leathers.

Now that was an entrance, she thought.

Rhaegal seemed to be in a good mood, opening and closing his wings, and making huffing noises as the horses moved nervously about under the dragon’s eye. He swung his head about to contemplate the observers on the stands. Ermensande shrieked and grabbed at Sansa, who was tempted to do the same but forced herself to remain outwardly calm. Don’t even think about it, you overgrown lizard, she mentally told the beast. I’m friends with your brother. 

Sansa was Viserion’s favourite among the Stark siblings, likely because she didn’t come with a direwolf. During Jon’s visits to Winterfell, Viserion tended to look long-suffering. Shaggydog and Nymeria, and sometimes even Ghost, enjoyed trying to bite his tail, and Jon refused to allow him to set the wolves on fire. Sansa had on occasion tossed a chicken or two for Viserion to catch, and he had always seemed pleased to see her. 

Aegon called to Rhaegal, a sharp command, and the dragon instantly retreated to his side. To Sansa’s surprise, the dragon ducked his head to press against Aegon’s body, and the king rubbed his brow ridges affectionately. Rhaegal rumbled with pleasure. It was a display she had never seen between Jon and Viserion. Aegon gave the dragon an affectionate smack. “Go on, now,” he said, and Rhaegal sighed before spreading his wings and leaping into the air. 

With the king present, the jousting was ready to start, although many of the horses took some time to calm down. The mystery knight was matched against Martyn Lannister. Martyn carried his sister Janei’s lion-embroidered handkerchief on his lance. (Given the family history, Sansa thought, someone should have suggested he take the favour of a lady less closely related.) She and Tyrion agreed to wager a piece of silver on the outcome. There was no need for them to say which way they were betting; Tyrion always bet on his family and Sansa always bet against them.

Podrick had explained the art of jousting to Sansa more than once, although she had never been particularly motivated to study its intricacies. The rider, he had explained, was a conduit between the horse and the lance – the blow that unseated the other rider was struck by the horse, with the rider guiding the force of the charge to the target. Watching this mystery knight, Sansa understood for the first time what he had meant. As the black horse galloped toward the opponent, horse and rider moved like a single being. The tip of the lance was rock steady in the air. Just before the moment of contact, the knight rose in the saddle, driving the horse’s strength squarely into the centre of Martyn’s shield. The Lannister heir went down in a shower of splinters from the knight’s broken lance, and the crowd gasped.

The mystery knight continued to ride well, and vanquished the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard in the final bout, to stand victorious before the royal couple. Aegon rose. “Unknown rider, you have been victorious against all challengers, and I declare you the victor of this tourney. Show your face so that we may congratulate you, and you may choose your Queen of Love and Beauty.” His smile was knowing.

The rider pulled off their helm, and a thick braid of sweat-soaked black hair slid out. There was a chorus of excited murmurs from the spectators as they looked on the face of a young woman with black eyes and a widow’s peak in her black hair. She gave her king a cool look, and bowed not-quite-deep enough for true courteously. “Well met, cousin,” said Elia Sand, her voice cool. 

Oh no, thought Sansa. As if she didn’t have enough Martells to deal with. Still, she was curious to see another of the Sand Snakes. This young woman could not be more different from her sweet-faced older sister Tyene. Like her mother Ellaria Sand, whom Sansa had met at Joffrey’s wedding years before, Elia was striking rather than truly beautiful but she had that same quality that drew the eye and that same fearless proud gaze. Looking at her cousins the King and Queen on their dais, she managed to give the impression that she was looking down her nose at them, although her gaze when she looked at Arianne at least had some warmth too it. 

“Your invitation to come was a waste of my time, cousin, if this poor field is the best that you can bring against me.” She told Aegon, no deference in her tone. She paused, looked at Arianne, and then looked away. “As for my Queen of Love and Beauty,” she paused, and a sudden smile crossed her face. The grin brought her features to life and a sudden sparkle to her eyes. “Why, I carry the favour of no lady, and although there are women here I love,” she tossed a wave to her sister and to Arianne, “no woman is my match where it counts. I must needs name myself.”

Aegon smiled, and there was a wild light of amusement in his eyes. For a moment he and Elia looked very much alike. “So be it. I declare my kinswoman Elia champion and the Queen of Love and Beauty of our tournament at Harrenhall. Let the tournament be at an end, and all here go forth in peace.” He rose, signifying that the jousting was at an end. 

Elia Sand remained stationary for a moment, her horse motionless underneath her. She looked at her cousin, her eyes dark, a hint of wary suspicion on her face. Arianne approached, carrying the cushion with the wreath of roses on it, and the cousins embraced.

Aegon settled himself next to Tyrion. The smoky odour of dragon clung to his clothes, and the sun shone on his fair hair. Sansa found herself flushing and looked away quickly. 

“Kind of you to join us, your grace,” Tyrion said caustically. “Although you took a long time to make a day’s flight to Harrenhal.”

Aegon grinned. The time seemed to have erased much of his previous ill humour. “Good to see you too, old friend,” he said, clasping Tyrion on the shoulder. “I keep telling you to come flying with me. Being in the air – there is nothing like it. I’m sure Rhaegal is big enough to bear your weight.”

“Maybe in another year,” said Tyrion, although his eyes had momentarily brightened. “Lets not take any risks.” He frowned curiously. “So, a tourney at Harrenhal, with an Elia as the Queen of Love and Beauty.”

Aegon shrugged, but his eyes were far away. “My cousin Elia likes to crown herself when she wins at tournaments. I suppose it means nothing to the dead, but it gives me some small satisfaction.” 

“What do you mean?” asked Ermensande, frowning.

“Before Robert’s Rebellion, in the year of the false spring, there was a tourney here,” Sansa explained quietly. “Prince Rhegar won, but he chose Jon’s mother Lyanna as the Queen of Love and Beauty. Some say she had ridden in the lists as a mystery knight they called the Knight of the Laughing Tree.”

“My father passed over my mother and his wife, Princess Elia.” Aegon added, his eyes dark. “I never knew her, but … she didn’t deserve to be scorned by my father. I don’t understand him. I’ve never understood him or what he did. Two years later he went off with Lyanna, left my mother and sister to die. My head would have been smashed against a wall by the Mountain that Rides.”

Tyrion raised the cup of wine he had been drinking from. “To bad fathers,” he said. 

Aegon nodded. “To fathers, and all that they do. What say you, Lady Sansa? People speak well of Ned Stark, even if no friend to my family. I suppose he cannot be blamed for his sister’s wildness.”

“He was a very good man,” Sansa answered. “He loved his sister enough to hide her son, but he raised his daughters to listen to Septas and pursue the womanly arts over horseback riding and weaponry.” But then, she thought sadly, he had so welcomed Arya’s wildness when she had refused to follow the path marked out for her. Sansa wondered what her father would have thought of her. “Perhaps not to bad fathers,” she added, “but just to fathers, and the mistakes they make.”

Aegon laughed, and signalled for more wine. “To fathers.”

She glanced up, and saw that Elia had sat down beside Arianne and Tyene. She had removed the top half of her armour, and was clad only in a rough singlet that left her smoothly muscled arms bare. She wore the garland of red roses on her sweat-drenched hair. Elia was looking towards them, and her dark eyes were filled with anger and suspicion. Obviously, Sansa thought, directed at me. Who else could she have cause to hate? Sansa dropped her eyes, and resolved to avoid the Martells as much as possible.


	10. Things Fall Apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder of the warnings on this story, some of which pertain to this chapter and the next.

Ermensande held up the cloth-of-gold dress. “I like this one. I think it shows the wealth of House Hayford,” she said.

“It does look expensive,” Sansa agreed, struggling to keep her expression neutral. That dress looks like a rat birthed a litter in a courtesan’s jewellery box, she thought. “I think the style is too mature. The pink myrish lace dress is the one you should wear.” Sansa held up the pink dress for Ermensande to admire. It had an underskirt of deep rose covered with green lace, and the boat neck was edged with a pattern of flowers that was mirrored in the design of the lace. 

Ermensande made a face. “The Queen of Thornes wears clothes less frumpy than that.”

“We could have your maids find some flowers to braid into your hair and you would look like Jenny of Oldstones. Put the lace dress on and let me see how it looks.” 

“Boring. It will look boring.” Ermensande sighed and vanished behind a screen to change.

Sansa poured herself a cup of Dornish red wine. If she couldn’t get the gold dress away from Ermensande, maybe she could tip her drink over it. She had dressed for the evening’s feast already, her white Samite dress embroidered with vines and butterflies and a silver circlet that had been a gift from Rickon in one of his affectionate moods. The day was bright and beautiful -- the late afternoon sun was shining on the deep blue waters of the lake. Sansa wished she had found time to walk by the shores of the lake and feel the sun on her skin. She was tired, and worried about the feast tonight, all the potential for conflict that brewed whenever the nobility of the realm gathered.

There was a knock on her door, and Sansa rose to open it. Brella was waiting, a Lannister guard behind her. The woman’s face was creased with anxiety. “My lady, the King sent for Lord Tyrion saying it was urgent, but he was exhausted following the tournament. In truth,” the woman said, lowering her voice, “I think he is in some pain but he won’t admit it. He says he needs some time to dress and compose himself. I was wondering if you could …”

“Of course,” Sansa said, “I can go and find out what the problem is. Send someone to find Garlan, too. He rode in the jousts today, so he should be changing in his quarters.” She put a hand on Brella’s shoulder. “Don’t let word get back to the Martells. This could involve them.” The older woman nodded, and Sansa was relieved that she could rely on her discretion. She wished she could tell Tyrion not to come, that she and Garlan could handle the problem, but she doubted Aegon would take kindly to her countermanding his summons. “Tell Tyrion to come when he is able, but not to strain himself.” Brella looked grateful, and she hastened away, leaving the guard to escort Sansa.

Ermensande emerged wearing the pink dress. “I assume you heard,” Sansa said. “Keep your mouth shut. I have to go, but I promise to see you at the feast. Go and send your maids to find the flowers.” 

“I don’t want to be Jenny. I want to wear the gold dress.” Ermensande rolled her eyes. “And I don’t want to have to sit with Janei and Martyn at the feast.”

Sansa kissed the girl’s brow. “You look lovely, sweetling,” she said. “I’ll be there to protect you from the Lannisters, I promise. Trust me. Now go on, and I will see you soon.”

*** 

Sansa found Aegon standing staring out the window, with a scrap of parchment in his hand. “Your grace?” she said softly when the door had shut behind her, not wanting to startle him. “Tyrion is delayed, but I thought I might be able to assist. I’ve sent for Garlan.”

He turned and looked at her, and then smiled. “Thank you for coming, Lady Stark. Sending for Garlan was a good thought. There is a dispatch from Oldtown I would appreciate your thoughts on.” He extended the document to her.

Sansa took it and scanned the contents, then read it again more slowly. “A conclave of the maesters at the request of Maester Alleras. This makes no mention of any outcome as yet. It does not even say what they are discussing.” Although she could guess.

Aegon shook his head and pushed his hand through his hair in an impatient gesture. “Obviously the Martells are pushing for a declaration by the entire conclave that Arianne is still fertile. My questions are this – will they get it, and if so, what does it mean?”

“The politics of the Citadel are outside my area of expertise. For that we will have to wait for the others. Garlan would know best – his mother is a Hightower of Oldtown. But if they do make the declaration…” her voice trailed off, and she shook her head. “Your Grace, you were raised in Essos, you may not understand the power the maesters have. Every highborn child in your realm was taught by a maester. They watch our steps from our first days. If the conclave passes this decision against you, it will be very difficult to challenge them. You may not be able to set Arianne aside, at least not for some years.”

This is wonderful, she thought, although she was careful to keep her expression neutral. If the Martells can get what they want from the maesters, then the crisis is done for a time. Arianne’s position is safe. Hopefully all the fears about her fertility will prove groundless, and there will be an heir within the year. Tyrion will be able to retire knowing the realm is secure, and Garlan as Hand will balance the Martell power. 

“Can we prevent it?” Aegon asked. “Aside from the issue of Arianne, I dislike the maesters taking such a direct role in the affairs of the realm. These decisions should be in my hands.”

“No one has absolute power, your grace. Not even a king,” she said.

“Not even a dragonrider?”

“Not unless you are prepared to burn the Citadel down.”

Aegon hissed with annoyance, and turned away. “I can’t control the Maesters, or the Faith, or the followers of the Red God. I have no coin to rebuild the roads, and my justice does not extend beyond the capital. My Queen plots behind my back and my half-brother thumbs his nose at me from the North.”

“You are the king,” Sansa said softly. “No one said it would be easy.”

Aegon shook his head, but his expression cleared and he looked calm again. “Sit down, please” he told her, gesturing to a table and chairs at the window, overlooking the bright blue of the lake. In the distance, the Isle of the Faces was green on the horizon, with a glimmer of weirwood groves on its hills. “Do you want some wine while we wait?”

She accepted a cup, more to settle him than anything, but did no more than wet her lips. A white sailed ship was making its way toward the castle, and she wondered if it was carrying goods for the harvest festival. With the court in residence, the town must be seeing more excitement than it had in the previous seven years combined. She said as much to Aegon.

“The castle needs a lord,” he agreed. “Since the last of the Whents passed, the titular lord has been your Uncle Edmure. I may suggest that he pass the castle to his second son if he has another. Of course, he might choose to make it his eldest daughter’s dowry.” He paused. “Speaking of which, he tells me that he has promised you his eldest daughter to a northern marriage.”

“He has,” Sansa answered, her mind still on the implications of the Maester’s conclave. “My preference is the heir to either the Umbers or the Karstarks if I can arrange it.”

“Why?”

She blinked, and refocused to answer his question. “Both families are important bannermen to my brother, and the marriage would tie the Riverlands closer to the North,” she said cautiously. “We depend greatly on the trade that we bring in from the southern lands. The Lords Paramount north of the Trident are all family these days, which did much to save our people during the last Winter.”

“Ah, yes, the great Northern Alliance. Catelyn Tully wed to Eddard Stark, and Lysa Tully to Jon Arryn. Three domains sharing borders, close family ties, and trade agreements to mutual advantage.”

“Some agreements, yes, of course.”

“Oh, don’t be modest. What is the North’s production of iron ore this year, exactly?”

Sansa felt a sudden chill. “I … would have to look the number up.” It was a lie. She knew the number. She knew the text of the agreements she had negotiated to sell that ore, and the impact of those agreements on mining in the southern part of Westeros. She had thought, had assumed, that nobody would notice. “I suppose production has gone up since the war,” she admitted. 

“You suppose,” he mimicked her, his voice sharp. “Those three kingdoms in the north are strong together: strong enough that they don’t need the rest of Westeros. They even have their own dragon now. Tell me, Lady Stark, how did that come to pass? Edmure Tully is an affable fool, Robert Arryn is weak, and Rickon Stark is a child. Who maintains that alliance?” He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “You do. Kind, pretty Sansa Stark, writing letters and engineering marriages, diverting money from my coffers and stealing labour from my projects.” 

She stared at him, stunned and suddenly frightened. It was true enough, she knew. She had worked for years to strengthen the alliance north of the trident. Robb had died for that alliance, she thought, how could she have let it crumble? And like an arrogant fool, she had assumed that nobody was clever enough to see what she was doing. 

She had been wrong.

“Every family works to their own benefit,” she said quietly.

“Yes,” he said. He looked away from her, gazing out over the lake, his face contemplative. The boat was tacking against the wind, she noted with some detached part of her mind, its sails flapping as it came about. The sun was shining. “But not every family controls the land and resources of more than half my kingdom.”

Tyrion, she thought, where in the Seven Hells are you? She cursed herself for having told Brella that he need not hurry. “The Starks have done fealty to your throne …”

His eyes snapped back to her, and she knew she had said the wrong thing. “Oh yes, bent the knee, just as Torrhen Stark did three hundred years ago. And just like they always have, the Starks mouth fealty and do as they please. Nothing is done in the North unless a Stark condescends to carry out the order. At least in the day of my ancestors, the Starks had the sense to stay in their frozen wasteland. Remind me why your precious alliance with the Tullys and the Arryns came to pass?”

“I concern myself with the future, not the past. Trade agreements ...”

“The Northern Alliance was formed to crush House Targaryen. My father, mother, sister, and grandfather were killed and our dynasty fell. I grew up in exile, always hiding from people who wanted me dead. When I retook my throne, my brother stole the woman I should have married, who should have been the mother of my heirs. Despite all that, I would offer you the chance to be Queen, and you throw it back in my face.” He took the paper from her suddenly numb fingers, spread it on the table between them. “The maesters defy me, and you can barely conceal your smiles. Tell me, are all the Starks as arrogant as you and my brother, the Ice Maiden of Winterfell and the Prince who was Promised? Tell me that, Lady Sansa, and make sure you smile as sweetly as you always do when you lie.” 

She stood up and pushed her chair back, made to go for the door. As quick as a striking snake, he grabbed her wrist. “Sit down,” he said. “We aren’t finished. We haven’t even started.”

Frozen in terror, she sank down into the chair, staring at his hand where it grasped her wrist. His fingers were long and they overlapped around her wrist, his grip strong. It felt like his hand was the only thing she could see. She could feel her breath shuddering in her chest. “Tyrion and Garlan are coming,” she breathed.

“No,” Aegon said. “I had Brella lie to you. I never sent for Tyrion.”

There was a moment of disbelief and then she stopped breathing and it was as if ice water had been poured into her guts. Aegon was watching her with a half-smile on his face, that same familiar, beloved half-smile that she had seen so many times on Jon’s face. That smile had lulled her into a false trust, had blinded her to so much. She saw it all now, and she understood what he intended. 

“Please,” she breathed. “I didn’t … I won’t … I …. Please.” She didn’t have to make her voice tremble or sound weak. The only wonder was that she was able to speak at all. As his smile deepened, with her free hand she grabbed her cup of wine and threw it in his face. She yanked her arm free and sprinted for the door, and there was a moment she thought she might reach it.

Then she was on the floor, the stone cold underneath her. His weight was on her and she struggled, knowing it was useless. He flipped her over, and there was nothing she could do as he pinned her wrists over her head, holding them both with one of his hands, so easily as if it was nothing at all even as she fought to get free. She was weak and pathetic as the fabric of her dress ripped, and there was only one thought in her mind – escape. Get away. Out of the corner of her eye she saw movement outside the window, and she wrenched herself out of her body, and suddenly –

Wings. She had wings, and her heart was racing in her chest, her breath coming rapid and shallow, but the pain was gone and she was flying, no falling, but then her wings were beating and she was flying higher and higher, and all she knew was that she was flying away. Free.


	11. "You Have Choices"

She had been a bird, but that bird had flown until its heart had failed and it had fallen dead from the air. Now she was huddled naked on the floor, clutching the torn dress against her chest. The air felt like ice despite the fire in the room, despite the warmth of the late afternoon air. She was leaning against the stones and wood surrounding the hearth. Weirwood, she thought with some distant, detached part of her mind. Dead weirwood from the Isle of the Faces, cut down by Harren the Black in his arrogance three hundred years ago. She ran her finger back and forth along the line where the wood met the stone. Both were hard and cold. They say there is blood in the mortar, she thought, and that thousands of men died in the quarries to mine this stone.

She didn’t look up as Aegon’s footsteps sounded behind her, or as he settled himself gracefully onto the floor next to her. He was dressed for the feast in a gold and black embroidered doublet. He held out a pot to her. “That’s oil infused with arnica,” he said affably. “It’s good for bruises. I got knocked around a lot when I first took Rhaegal.”

Silently, she took the pot from him. It was blue glazed pottery with a cork in the top. Pretty, she thought, turning it in her hand. 

Aegon sighed, got up, and walked away. In a moment she heard him returning, felt something soft around her shoulders. A blanket, a wool blanket. “You are in shock,” he said. “I thought at first that you might not recover. Stay warm by the fire, it will pass. I will say you felt ill and sent your apologies for the feast tonight.”

They would be gathering now, she thought, her uncle, her husband, some of her dearest friends, even the Lannister cousins. They would be laughing together, downstairs in the Hall of the Hundred Hearths. They would be plotting and arguing. She recalled that she had been worried about tonight, about what would happen at that feast. Aegon was still here, watching her. He had said he would tell them … at the feast … 

“You aren’t going to kill me, then,” she said. She had a momentary vision of her body being dropped into the lake, her throat slit, vanishing into the deep blue with her hair trailing out. It was a peaceful image. Then she felt the breath in her lungs, felt her muscles working as she shivered, and knew she didn’t want to die. Her mind began to come back with that realization. She forced her gaze up, to look directly at Aegon. 

His expression was calm, steady. Under his long lashes, his eyes looked almost black. He considered her question, and quirked an eyebrow. “You mean as a way of ensuring your silence? I had not planned on it.” 

“Can … can I go back to Winterfell?”

“No.” 

She felt her breath catch and a sob started to build. “I swear, I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

He reached out and took the pot from her, placed it carefully on the hearth. Then he took her hand, and laced his fingers through hers, running his thumb across her palm. “You have choices,” he said, “about what you will do. You can leave this room, go down to the Hall, and accuse me of rape before all the gathered lords and knights. You can cry for the protection of your kin, your precious Northern Alliance. Perhaps they will believe you, and fight to remove me off my throne and avenge your honour.” He smiled, a light in his eyes. “Naming Elia the Queen of Love and Beauty gave me some satisfaction, but that would be nothing compared to what I would feel fighting Robert’s Rebellion over again, this time with a dragon on the Targaryen side. The outcome would be very different, I assure you. There would be no battle in the fords, no ruby breastplate smashed under a war hammer. Only the fire. You know, better than almost anyone, what a dragon’s fire can do to human flesh.”

“You cannot take the North, there is …” She stopped, and gasped. 

Aegon smiled calmly. “Brothers fight about so many things. Land, inheritances, an insult … a woman. Ask Jon for help if you wish. When he comes for you, if he comes, then we will find out who is the better dragonrider, who is the heir of the dragonlords.” His dark wine-coloured eyes were almost dreamy. “It would be something to see, the sons of Rhaegar battling in the air. Then everyone would know who the true King of Westeros is. Everyone who survived, that is, as the flames rain down from the sky.”

Tears silently began to trickle down her cheeks, dripped onto the naked skin at her collarbone. 

“Or maybe all those people downstairs who love you, who are allied with your family, maybe they will think of what would happen if they challenged me. Maybe your friends Willas and Myranda will look at their children and at the melted walls of this castle. Maybe they will all think about the limits of their love for you when faced with a second Field of Fire.” He paused to take a corner of the blanket and wipe the tears from her cheeks.

“And their doubts may be real,” he continued. “If confronted, I will say that we lay together in a moment of passion and that you are blaming me in regret for your disgrace. Most of the court knows you were in my arms while Arianne was in the birthing bed. Brella and the guard who escorted you will say you came here of your own free will, alone, a most extraordinary thing for a lady to do. You will be shamed as a fornicator and as a liar. Since we are both married, you would also be an adulteress. If I recall correctly,” he added, contemplatively, “Cersei Lannister was forced to walk naked through the streets of Kings Landing as her penance for lying with men, and she was a widow. I don’t even know what would happen to you. Even if you were able to return to Winterfell, the shame would follow you and your family all your life.”

She closed her eyes and shuddered, feeling the tears welling even behind her closed eyelids. She imagined Rickon’s face, Arya’s. Jon’s words from the Wall echoed in her ears. “Like you have never told a lie, Sansa,” he had said. “Arya told me.” And she had. She had lied for Joffrey, and her wolf had died as if the Old Gods had judged her unworthy of her protector. 

“Now, in the alternative,” he said, and she opened her eyes, “you may choose not to make a complaint against me. Everything will be as if this,” he gestured to the room, “never happened. After the festival, the court will return to King’s Landing, where you will continue your excellent work on the Small Council as my advisor. The realm will continue to rebuild from the horrors of the war and the winter, and there will be peace. There will be no reason for my brother to leave the Wall, and I will be content for him to live and die in that frozen wasteland. Discretely, and in private,” he continued, “you will be my lover.” He smiled at her look of horror. “Which, I assure you, is what would have occurred if you had not been so stubborn, and which you will find far more pleasant than what just happened. In time, you may even become Queen, with all the honours of the position, and with the children you so desperately want. It would be fitting,” he added, “for a Stark to be the one to continue the Targaryen dynasty, when your family nearly ended it.”

Lyanna had been young and foolish, but Sansa was a woman grown who had seen war and death, who knew the consequences of her actions and the harsh truth of her world. She had seen war and death, known hunger and fear. “I won’t tell anyone,” she said. “But I will never be your … your … lover.”

“We shall see,” he said cheerfully. “I am sorry about your dress. I’ll buy you a new one. There is a gown of Arianne’s you can wear to get back to your quarters; if you wait until after the feast has started there shouldn’t be anyone in the hallways.” He cupped her face in his hands, leaned in, and kissed her forehead. “We’ll talk again later.” He rose, then stopped. “And when your Podrick gets better, you might want to consider finding some way to get rid of him. I don’t care one way or another, but keeping him around seems ... cruel.” 

The door closed behind him, and Sansa was alone. She touched the painful spot between her legs and her fingers came away covered in blood. She stared at it for a moment, then revulsion overwhelmed her and she dashed the blood across the wood and stone of the hearth. The burning flames wavered and blurred, and she buried her face in her arms as sobs shook her body. She didn’t know how long she cried, but when she raised her head the afternoon light had turned golden-pink with the setting sun. 

The only hope she had would be to run. If she could disappear into the countryside and lose herself amongst the small folk, somewhere that the Spider could not find her, long enough to get to take ship in a port, to flee. But where? Who would be willing to give her refuge; who would she be prepared to expose to the dragon’s wrath? All she knew was that she was alone, as she always had been since she had ridden out of the gates of Winterfell when she was eleven years old, as she had been in all the darkest times in her life. The girl who had left Winterfell all those years ago had hoped and loved and trusted, but that girl had been gentle and foolish, and the last part of her had died here in this room.

Sansa felt through the folds of her dress until her fingers touched the round smooth shape of the silver pin. She ran her fingers across the hidden catch the silversmith had fashioned for her, but found it jammed. So. Raising the broach, she smashed it against the stone until it shattered and released its hidden contents. The mocking bird pin fell into the palm of her hand. The silver had been bright when she had given it to the silversmith, as bright as it had been when Petyr Baelish had worn it at his throat, as bright as it had been the day she had paid the iron price and made it her own.

She combed her hair with her fingers and washed herself at a basin she found. Then she put on Arianne’s dress. It was Dornish in style – a flowing length of saffron-dyed silk embroidered with the sun and spear motif that hit Sansa at mid-calf. Her own gown was torn from neck to hip, the white samite stained, the bright butterflies dimmed with filth from the floor. She used it to wipe the blood from the hearth stones, then built the fire up and tossed the dress onto it. The flames leapt up, consuming it until there was nothing left but ash. 

***

Jon

I hope and pray that this letter will find you safely returned to the Wall. I said unkind things the last time we met. I am deeply sorry. You have always conducted yourself with honour, and the father who raised us both would have been proud of you. I understand now that your duty is at the Wall, and I was wrong to suggest otherwise. Know that my prayers to the Seven and to the Old Gods are for your safety and that you find some measure of happiness. 

My last letter distressed Sam. In truth I was distraught and angry over what happened to Podrick. There is more -- Tyrion Lannister is dying. He has maintained the peace these last years more than any of us understood and his passing will shake the foundations of the realm. Although it is likely not necessary, I may take Maester Tarly’s advice and go to family at Riverrun or the Eyrie for a time. Do not fear for me.

You were of the North before you ever were a Targaryen, and our words are not fire and blood. We do not seek vengeance against our enemies. Winter is coming. Please, I beg of you for the love that you bore for my father and for Robb, and your love and devotion to Arya, Bran, and Rickon, please no matter what happens, no matter what occurs and what you may hear, do not leave the Wall.

I am sorry, Jon. I tried.

Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of Sansa's POV, and from this point the story will be continued through Jon's eyes. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has commented and kudo-ed. It means so much to me. There will be a break before the next set of updates; since this is a plot-intensive story, I do try to have at least a rough draft of the section before I post so that I don't write myself into a corner. Please don't think I have abandoned the story.
> 
> Regarding Sansa's decision at the conclusion of this chapter that she won't tell anyone about the rape -- I realize some people may be shocked and upset about it. Without writing an essay about the treatment of victims of crime (a topic I have strong feelings about), Sansa's actions are a reasoned reaction to her circumstances and come out of her history and her position in the society of Westeros. Even in the real world, people make this sort of decision every day. At the same time, I hope that nobody will think that I am advocating for victims of crime to remain silent and not seek help. Sansa's decision is very much a product of her history of abuse. She doesn't consider that anyone she might approach, like Jon, might understand the dangers she faces and be able help her without starting a war. If anyone is or knows a victim of crime, help is available.


	12. Dark Dreams

“There is blood on the stones.” As Jon stared, Bran opened his eyes, stretched his fingers as if in supplication. Bran’s gaze was blank and empty. He opened his mouth, as if to say something more, but no sound came out. Something white moved inside, where his tongue should have been. A weirwood root burst from his mouth, grew rapidly longer and thicker until it trailed down Bran’s chest, writhing like a snake. Jon scrambled though the roots entwined around his brother to try to rip him free. The roots wrapped themselves around Jon’s arms and legs and he went down, feeling wood move against his chest and the breath being choked from his lungs.

He struggled against the moving roots, but Bran was gone, and the things wrapped around him were not roots, they were fingers, dead fingers. Jon cried out in panic and terror, scrambling backwards only to encounter more grasping hands, more dead faces. They were faces he knew, his brother Robb and Catelyn Stark, their eyes shining blue in rotting flesh, Rodrick and Jory Cassel, the skin dropping from their bodies. Behind them was Eddard Stark with his greatsword in his hands and a great slash across his neck, his dead face implacable. They advanced towards him on all sides, and he had no weapon, but he beat at them with his fists and kicked at them with his feet. 

He broke free and ran through the darkness, hearing the shambling feet close behind him, until he was no longer running on stone but climbing on ice, feeling the dead hands grasping at his heels. The Wall was slick under his hands, as treacherous as when he had braved it with Ygritte, and he could feel pieces breaking under his fingers as he climbed. His muscles were burning, and he scrambled upwards desperate with terror. His hands were slipping, and they were so cold, he was losing his grip –

A strong hand reached down and took his. Jon looked up to see Jeor Mormont quirk an eyebrow as he roughly pulled Jon up to the top of the Wall. “Thank you for honouring us with your presence, Lord Snow. I hope we have not inconvenienced you.” Jon nearly wept at the relief of seeing him, of being safe. Mormont just turned away as if he had helped Jon down off a horse and he judged Jon weak for needing the aid. 

The Wall was manned by those he remembered from the final fight: Black Brothers, Northerners, Wildling, Unsullied, Ironborn, Knights of the Vale. Jon walked among them, seeing familiar faces. They were all pale and grey, shadows of the people he had fought beside. Except one.

At first he only saw the man’s back, the sweep of long silver hair and the golden armour. As Jon walked towards him, the man turned, and Jon saw the flash of red rubies, the wine-dark purple eyes filled with melancholy. “Father,” he said to Rhaegar.

“My son,” Rhaegar answered, a fierce pride in his eyes. “You held the Wall. Again, and again, you met the darkness and defeated it. You are the Prince that was Promised, the product of everything I worked for.”

“Yes, I held it,” Jon said bitterly. “I ate turnips and shivered in the cold. You went to battle in rubies, and I went in rags. Did your visions let you smell the rotting flesh of the dead, father?”

“You are both the wolf and the dragon: ice and fire. It was your destiny, what was prophesized.”

“It was my life! The choice was not yours to make.”

“No,” Rhaegar answered. “The choice was yours, my son, to guard the realms of men. That is your duty.” 

“My duty is done,” Jon answered, but even as he spoke he heard the scratching of the dead climbing the Wall. “How many people died for your visions? My mother died. You left your wife and children to the mercy of an invading army. If you wanted to fight the darkness, you should have marched to the Wall. Steel and dragonglass would have done more to fight the enemy than all your prophesies and songs.”

“You were the Prince that was Promised,” Rhaegar repeated, and Jon saw the gleam of madness in those beautiful violet eyes. He backed away from Rhaegar, turned, and began to run through the ghostly defenders. 

He stumbled and fell onto his knees on the ice, looked up to see a small, slender figure with fire behind her. Daenerys smiled down at him, and he wept and pressed his face into her belly. The breath shuddered through him and he breathed in her scent of sweat and smoke even as he heard the rising clamour of the dead. “You stink, Stormborn,” he murmured.

He felt her pull him up until she was looking up into his eyes. Her face was dark with fatigue, her eyes hot with anger. “My dragons were a miracle,” she cried out in fury and grief.

Jon took her in his arms, felt her body shake against his. “What is wrong, Dany? We can fight it together, you and I. Tell me.” He held her close, and they huddled together from the wind like children. Then she pulled back, and it was Sansa in his arms – Sansa as he had last seen her on the wall with her ice blue cape and dress whipping in the wind. “Why did you forget about me, Jon?” she asked. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but when he touched them they were made of ice. She held up her fingers and he saw that they were stained with blood. As he watched, the blood thickened and dripped until it was thick dark rivets running down her arms and falling onto the ice.

“I never forgot,” Jon said, taking her hands, slick with blood, into his own. The wind was howling around them, and he felt her grip sliding out of his. She staggered in the wind and fell onto the ice, leaving him with nothing but the blood on his hands. Behind him, he heard a scrape, whirled, and saw the first of the dead coming over the top of the wall. He ran to Sansa’s side, reached to grab her shoulders and pull her up, and felt nothing but cold beneath his fingers. He brushed the hair away from her face, and her skin had turned to ice, with colours flashing and moving beneath the skin like an Other. She looked at him uncomprehendingly. “Who are you?” she asked. 

“Sansa, it’s Jon,” he told her.

She shook her head. “Who are you?” she asked again, her voice insistent. 

“Lord Snow.” Stannis’ voice was hard. “She is lost. You have a duty to defend the realm I died for. Do not let my people bleed.”

“I can’t leave her,” Jon yelled back at him, but he could see the dead coming over the Wall, coming for him in their dozens and hundreds, and even as he held Sansa close, they went down under the weight of the attackers, and he knew that this time there would be no rescue, no hope --

Jon gasped, and woke. Rolling upright, he found himself with his dagger in his hand staring around an empty chamber. The soft lantern by his bed left shadows in the corner of the rock walls; he stared into them, his breath shuddering in his chest, waiting to see if there was movement in the darkness. Nothing. He rolled out of the sleeping furs and took the lantern, moving around the walls so that nothing could come behind him. The shadows were empty. Jon slid down into a seated position and buried his face in his hands. Not real, he told himself. None of it was real.

The sound of footsteps in the passage outside reached his ear, and he hastily sheathed the dagger and rubbed his hands over his face. Leaf pushed aside the hangings and stood in the doorway. The Child did not attempt to approach him, for which Jon was grateful, and her eyes were gentle and knowing. “You dreamed again, Prince Jon,” she said. 

“Yes,” he admitted. It was still strange to hear himself called a Prince, stranger to think that Leaf had travelled in the south for centuries while his Targaryen ancestors ruled. She had told him tales of seeing a young Daena the Defiant riding in the woods with her bow, of her son Daemon Blackfyre’s death when brother fought brother for the throne. She had seen the dragons fly, and battle each other, and vanish. He wondered what she had thought when dragons had returned to the skies of Westeros.

“The greenseer has awoken. He says he will speak to you outside, if that is your wish.” Jon nodded, thankful that Bran was not going to ask him to enter the cave of the weirwood roots, with his strange throne and the murmur of the dark river coming from the abyss. 

When Leaf withdrew, Jon splashed water on his face and waited for his breathing to steady. Then he slipped out through the dim passageways of the caves, passing the Children as they went about their business and spoke to each other in their own tongue. Sometimes he heard their songs echo off the stones, and it eased the tension he still carried from his dream.

Emerging out onto the hillside, he found the sunlight temporarily blinded him. He waited until his eyes adjusted to the light. The cool air of the far north was a relief after the terror of the dream and the confinement of the caves. Walking up the hill, he chose a route that avoided passing through any groves of trees. (The branches, he thought, were like bony hands reaching out to grasp him.) At the top of the hill, there was a flat rock in the sunlight with a view of the surrounding lands in the shadow of the giant weirwood tree. He settled there. 

After a few minutes, there was a rustle in the trees, and the white form of Ghost padded out to silently sit beside him. From above, the shadow of Viserion passed overhead, then again as the dragon wheeled and turned in the air. He hovered over Jon and Ghost, his golden eyes watching them. There was blood on his muzzle. “Have you hunted, boy?” Jon stretch out his mind to the dragon’s. He did not attempt a full joining, but only dipped briefly into the caldron of fire that was the thoughts of the dragon. He received a brief image of elk running through the forest, and Viserion following them in the air. “Was it good?” Viserion blinked, and then soared away as Jon released him. Jon closed his eyes and leaned back into Ghost’s fur, knowing that Ghost would keep watch for any danger. 

Jon heard Summer coming up the hillside through his wolf’s ears long before his own senses would have alerted him to visitors. Bran’s direwolf barked and stretched out his front legs to Ghost, inviting his litter mate to play, and the two huge beasts gambolled about the hilltop together. 

Jon blinked, and when his eyes opened, Bran was sitting silently, companionably, next to him. 

“Leaf said you had another dream.”

“It was the usual, Bran,” Jon said shortly. “The Wall, the dead. I lose the war every night in my dreams. Tell me it isn’t real.”

“My sight covers all the North, everywhere that the weirwoods grow. There is peace. If the Others were to come again, I would know it. What you have feared will not come to pass in our lifetimes.”

“I know that now,” Jon said. “But I see it over and over again, every night. Everyone I love is in danger. It feels so real.” He hesitated. “Last night I saw Sansa, and she had turned to ice in my arms.” He waited for Bran to reassure him. Instead, Bran was silent for a long time. 

Finally, Bran spoke, but his response was not what Jon has expected. “What do you know of magic, Jon?” 

“Only what you have told me,” Jon answered.

“There are many forms of power in our world. The Old Gods see through the faces on the trees, and even south of the Neck there are places holy to them. The Isle in the lake called the Gods Eye, where the trees still grow, is the greatest of them. On the shores of that lake is another, the castle of Harrenhal. It is a place of darkness, and my sight is clouded there. But last night I saw blood on the stones of Harrenhal.” 

Jon’s head snapped up as Bran repeated the words from his dream. 

“I looked into the weirwoods, into the past and the present. I am not sure, but I think that Sansa may have gone to Harrenhal.”

“Harrenhal.” Jon remembered Old Nan’s stories of the place. He frowned. “Why would Sansa go to a half ruined dusty castle full of bats? She’s in King’s Landing, on the Small Council. She’s cross with me for neglecting my duties as Regent.” He looked down. There had been reason for her ire, he thought in shame. “But … she’s doing well on the Council. In her last letter she said that Aegon’s heir will be born soon. There is no reason for her to have left the capital.” 

“Jon,” Bran said gently. “You have been with us for six moons.”

“No. That’s not possible.” Jon sat stunned. He thought back to the first days after he had found the caves, when nights and days had blurred together and he had not known Bran or the Children for who they were. He remembered the first days they had been able to coax him into the sunlight, of slowly regaining his will to eat and speak. He had known that time had passed while he returned to himself, but … six moons. Six moons. Anything could have happened. He thought of his dream of Sansa, and the blood on his hands. He rubbed his fingers together as if he could still feel the sticky damp of it. Jon stared at Bran in slowly rising dread, uttered the fear that had been with him for so long: “Could she be dead?” He had seen the people he loved die so many times in so many dreams – Sansa, Arya, Rickon, Sam. He had seen the already dead die again and again: Ned Stark, Robb, Ygritte, Daenyers. If Sansa had died in the south, where he had sent her … 

“No,” Bran said with certainty. “Sansa is my sister. More than that, she was the Stark in Winterfell these last years. If she had died at Harrenhal, I would know.”

Jon closed his eyes, letting a wave of relief pass over him. The things I fear are not real, he reminded himself. He took a deep breath. “I have to go south,” he said. “I’ve stayed here too long.”

“Jon,” Bran said. “Are you certain about this?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I cannot stay here forever. If something is happening in the south, and Sansa is involved, then I have a responsibility to help her. And if it is nothing,” he shook his head. “I still have a responsibility.” But even as he said it, there was another small voice in the back of his mind. I could see the castles of my ancestors, it said. I could feel the warmth of the southern sun on my skin, and know the people I gave so much of my life to save. “What happened before I came to you … it won’t happen again, I’m sure of it.”

Bran looked away, his eyes distant for a moment. “You will go beyond the places where I have power,” he warned. “I would go with you if I could, but the time for that has passed. I cannot leave the trees.” He reached into a fold of his clothes and produced a small polished wooden box. “But I can send you aid. Take this,” he passed the box to Jon. “Inside you will find the seed of a weirwood tree. Take it with you, keep it secret and safe. The Godswoods of the south have lost their heart trees. If you plant that and it grows, in time I may be able to reach you if you need me.”

Jon nodded. He reached out to engulf Bran in a hug. The younger boy put his arms around Jon’s shoulders and they rested their heads together. “Thank you, Bran,” Jon said finally. “Thank you for everything.”

Bran did not move. “We are still brothers, aren’t we? Even if you are a Targaryen now?”

“Yes,” Jon said. “You are my brother forever. All of you, the Starks, are my brothers and sisters.”

“Then you don’t need to thank me,” Bran said. “This is what brothers do for each other.” 

Jon looked behind Bran, and saw Leaf standing under the weirwood, with a bag in her hands. Jon’s bag, holding everything he had brought with him to this place. He looked at his brother, realizing that Bran had always known that he would be leaving. 

Bran smiled, the corner of his eyes crinkling. “Good luck, Jon. We will meet again.” The wind blew, and the shadow of the weirwood shifted, and Bran was gone. Only Summer was left in the clearing. The direwolf looked at Jon with huge dark eyes, then trotted to Leaf. Together, they vanished into the trees.

Ghost pressed into Jon’s side and whined. Jon rubbed his head. “Sorry, old friend,” he told his direwolf. “I have to go on ahead of you. Come and find me if you can.” With that, he looked into the sky and called to the dragon. 

The time had come for him to fly.


	13. In the Air

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purposes of this story, I have assumed that Lyanna Mormont was younger in than Jon thought when she wrote her letter to Stannis in a Dance with Dragons. She is about two years older than Rickon. 
> 
> The material later in the chapter is heavily inspired by some of the comments I have received which are critical of Jon. I figured that at least one character should really let Jon have it about everything he has neglected, particularly since Westeros has very little concept of PTSD or mental health problems.

The glass gardens of Winterfell had sustained its people through a hundred winters, but their wonder had been the bounty they produced. Rebuilt, they were so beautiful that even in his urgency, Jon was stunned by their beauty. A thousand rainbows of light and color struck his eyes as he stepped through the inner doors, filtered through layers of glass that trapped the heat and was angled to slough off the winter snows. They had planned this together, he and Sansa, in the first days of spring, before the grey hopelessness had overwhelmed him. The idea of bringing glassmakers from Myr to train apprentices had been his, Sansa had found the coin, and together they had drawn up the plans. Now, for the first time, he truly saw what had come from their vision. There was a moment when he looked at the riot of colours through tears, before he blinked them back, glad that there was no one to see.

Winterfell’s familiar outline on the horizon had been a welcome sight. Bran’s cave was further north than his usual patrol sweeps, and what maps existed from previous rangings had not been written with navigation from the air in mind. Viserion’s need to hunt had further delayed them. Even after Castle Black, when he could follow the Kingsroad, his progress had been slowed by rain and mist that sometimes limited visibility to only a few dragon lengths. He had hoped to make the flight to Winterfell in a few days, but near a fortnight had passed before he reached the castle.

The people of Winterfell were used to Jon, and knew not to crowd him, although he had seen the children gather on the walls to gawk at the dragon. Viserion, for his part, had proceeded directly to the largest of the hot pools (causing the bathers to scatter) and submerged himself so that only his eyes and nostrils poked out. His mind radiated blissful contentment. Although the prospect of joining the dragon had been tempting after the long flight, Jon had asked for Rickon, and been directed to the glass gardens. 

He turned the corner, looked, and dove back the way he had come, cringing and covering his eyes. “Damnit Rickon,” he muttered under his breath. From the sounds, neither Rickon nor his companion had been aware of the intrusion. A few minutes exploration provided Jon with a bucket of cold water that appeared to have been intended for the rose bushes. Moving quietly, Jon came up behind the couple and dumped the contents unceremoniously over Rickon’s back.

Rickon scrambled to his feet, cursing as the girl’s shriek of laughter rang through the glass garden. Jon didn’t let Rickon straighten up before his arm was around the younger boy’s neck. Rickon stilled instantly at the feeling of sharp steel between his legs. “If I was an enemy,” Jon told him grimly. “I could end your line right here and now.” He waited a moment to let the words sink in, then moved his knife to tap the flat of the blade against Rickon’s scrotum. 

Rickon stood very still. “Jon? What … what are you doing here?”

Jon removed his knife and pushed Rickon so that he went sprawling onto the floor. “Right this moment, wishing I was blind. Put your pants on.” He carefully focused his gaze at Rickon, scrambling for his clothes, and not at the girl. “Lyanna,” he greeted her.

“Your highness,” Lyanna smoothly returned Jon’s greeting, sitting up and pulling her dress on in a graceful motion. She gave Jon a cat-like smile, which deepened at his blush. At sixteen, Lyanna had grown into a cool elegance. She reminded Jon of her older sister Dacey who had died with Robb at the Red Wedding. She was dark haired and pretty (although nobody looked their best from the angle Jon has just seen). He recalled that she was named for his mother, although as soon as Jon had the thought, he wished he hadn’t.

“The hell, Jon!” Rickon spat, once he had his pants on. “You crazy—“

“What were you thinking?” Jon demanded, not in the mood for an argument. He wondered if he had seemed so rash at fourteen. “You are not without enemies, even within the walls of Winterfell. I don’t want to catch you letting your guard down in public for any reason, let alone fucking in the glass gardens.” 

“Yeah, well, I don’t think that is going to be a problem,” Rickon said with a glare, putting his hand protectively over his crotch. “Since I may never get it up AGAIN,” he added. “Are you just here to end any possibility of the male Stark line continuing, or is there some reason for the visit?”

“We need to talk. I’ll wait for you in your solar, Rickon.” He flicked his dagger into the ground. “And you can wash my knife.” 

***

Only Rickon, Jon reflected, would accept that someone had vanished into the wilderness for six moons without batting an eye or asking for an explanation. Lyanna seemed more curious, but when Jon failed to elaborate, she let the matter drop. Sam had been less reticent when Jon had stopped at Castle Black on his way south. Jon had told Sam everything: his time at the cave, and what had happened in the woods to bring him there. It had not been easy, and he was grateful that he did not have to repeat the experience at Winterfell.

He had hoped that Sam would be able to assuage his fears about Sansa in King’s Landing. Instead, Sam had provided him with two letters from Sansa in King’s Landing, and a copy of his own response. Jon quietly cursed as he read the first, detailing the loss of the Queen’s child and Jon’s continuing (and unwelcome) status as heir to the throne. He wished, not for the first time, that he had protested legitimization more forcefully. He opened the second letter, saw the word “Harrenhal” and felt his heart sink. He had restrained himself from taking to the air like he was launched from a catapult, and had only turned south after assuring himself that Lord Commander Mormont had the rebuilding well in hand and after leaving instructions for Sam to send any more letters south.

There was no way to know if Sansa had received Sam’s suggestion that she leave court. Jon had sent his own reply immediately, but knew he could not depend on her receiving it in a timely fashion. No ravens made the trip from the Wall to the south directly. The distances were too great for any one bird. Letters were passed from one castle to another, and routes depended on the availability of trained birds. Sometimes messages would travel by horse or ship. At best, the letter might make it in a fortnight, faster than a dragon could fly. At worst, it could be moons.

Jon minimized his fears as he explained the problem to Rickon and Lyanna, and that he would be travelling south to try to figure out what had occurred. He was reassured that Rickon appeared to be managing well, that Edmure Tully would be visiting to advise the young lord, and that Lyanna appeared steady and sensible. For all her apparent wildness, he knew that she had ruled Bear Island during the War when she was no more than a spirited child. The years had steadied her, although they had not diminished her fierce, and now personal, loyalty to the Starks. 

Even now, she had silently produced a map of the Trident region for them to examine, and consider where Sansa could most likely be found. “If there is nothing wrong, then you will find her with the court,” Lyanna said. “But if there is danger, and she takes Sam’s advice to leave,” she added, her finger hovering above Harrenhal, “Where would she go? The North is too far.”

Rickon shrugged. “Riverrun. That’s maybe five days ride away, on easy roads, or ten days on the backroads. The North is too far – that journey would take months. If not Riverrun, then the Vale. The Eyrie is secure, and she knows the Vale well, but she would have to travel over the High road to get there.”

“Riverrun is the most obvious place,” Jon agreed. “Maybe too obvious. If the trouble was serious enough for her to leave court, then Riverrun would be the first place an enemy would look for her. I will start at the Eyrie. If she’s not there, then Robert Arryn may have news.”

“Do you truly think there is trouble?” Rickon asked with a worried frown. “She sounded content enough in her letters to me – she spoke well of the King. Surely if there is danger she would be protected at court.”

At Jon’s request, Rickon produced Sansa’s letters. They read like the correspondence of a woman writing to an unruly child. Sansa spoke of little of political importance, and less of personal interest. The King and Queen had been welcoming and gracious, Tyrion was witty, Podrick had killed a shadowcat and given Sansa the skin. There was no mention of conflict with the Martells or violence in the throneroom. From her letters to Rickon, Jon would have thought the court an endless parade of funny stories and pageantry. The last had been sent on the road to Harrenhal.

He had a feeling of unease holding the packet of letters, which told a sweet lie to a boy Sansa had seen as an unruly child, and wondered what other lies she might have told, what secrets she might have kept. She sees Rickon as a child, he thought. She and I thought of each other the same way. What do her letters to me fail to say? 

***

Jon had to let Viserion rest for several days and regain his strength before continuing south. The time gave Jon the opportunity to sign documents giving Rickon some proxy powers, and giving others to Lyanna’s sister Alysane Mormont to exercise until Arya returned. On review, he found the account books of Winterfell in good order, the castle well-staffed, and the bannermen as content as could be expected. He agreed with Rickon’s concerns about the encroachment of the Ironborn on the west coast, and made some suggestions for a mutual defence strategy with Edmure Tully. Jon also sent a pointed personal message addressed to Theon, but intended for Asha as the true power on the islands, suggesting that they would not like the consequences if they continued to allow raids.

That done, he occupied himself with acquiring supplies and maps for the flight to the Eyrie. It was sobering to realize that he had never been further south than a couple of days’ ride from Winterfell. That trip had been a hunting expedition with Robb and Theon, accompanied by several Stark men. He remembered how mature they had felt as they chose the campsites each night and how proud they had been riding back with their packhorses loaded with game. Jon had just turned fourteen, and half a year later he had been on his way to the Wall.

Spring had come, and he had twenty namedays, the next time he had seen Winterfell. Even after the defeat of the Others, Winter had continued to rage for years. The survivors at the Wall had battled starvation and laboured to keep the life-saving roads from Eastwatch open for supplies. Jon had managed to get some of them home over icy roads but for others, like Daenerys’ troops and the Wildlings, there were no homes to go to. Some were so badly wounded that all that could be done was to try to keep them warm and comfortable.

When the first days of Spring had come, it had felt like the world was coming alive again. Food had still been desperately short, but there were returning birds to hunt and greens coming through the melting snow, and as hungry mouths vanished south or returned to abandoned villages, Jon had begun to think about the possibility of a future away from the Wall. He had imagined he could take Viserion to Dragonstone to see the ancient fortress of the Targaryens under the smoking mountain, where both their ancestors had ruled. He had even dreamed of visiting Essos to see the cities Dany had ruled half way around the world, although he had known he’d never dare to take his dragon so far from the Wall. Even in those first days of Spring, in the back of his mind had been the fear, and the whisper of ‘not again.’

It had been nearly four years since that first visit to Winterfell, which had started out so hopefully. For the first few days he had loved to simply roam around the castle, seeing the familiar places of his boyhood, praying before the heart tree in the Godswood. He and Sansa and Arya had planned the rebuilding together, dreaming of a Winterfell as strong as the old castle and as beautiful as dreams could make it. But as the days turned into weeks he had found it more and more difficult to live by the rhythms of life in the Stark stronghold. He found himself waking in a sweat from dreams, and startling at sudden noises. He had concealed his growing anxiety from the others, not wishing to distress them and hoping that it would fade in time. Perhaps it would have, he thought, but two months into his visit a message had come from the Wall. Wildlings returning to abandoned villages had seen the walking dead.

The alarm had proven false: the man was more than a little mad. Still, Jon had spent months scouring the forests. He had not wanted to admit to himself that he had felt a rush of relief when he returned to Castle Black, and had felt he was home. He had roamed the castle in the dark, unable to sleep, and he had met other men with their own demons that came in the dark. Jon could not trust these once-brothers, but he had found himself counselling the mentally wounded just as he had once watched over the physically helpless. He spent long nights silently listening to tales of the battles, of comrades lost, of the guilt and shame of the survivors. Sometimes the tales had seemed more real than the life he was living.

He had felt a purpose then, as he patrolled the north, and cared for the survivors of the war, as he signed documents and arranged for his incomes as a prince to care for orphans and widows in the south. He had believed he was doing his duty. When, he wondered, had the darkness began to close over him? When had he begun to mistake his nightmares for reality?

A soft knock on the door startled him, and he touched the hilt of his (washed) dagger before he looked up. A dark haired young woman peered around his door frame, her brow creased. Although she had once been pretty, her nose was disfigured and her cheeks scarred by frostbite. “Jeyne,” he said. 

Jeyne Poole hovered in the doorway, her hands twisting in her skirt. “Your highness, if I might have a word?”

“We grew up together, Jeyne. Please, call me Jon.”

“Oh no. I could never do that,” she said, and Jon thought briefly about how she had once smirked at him for his bastard birth. He sighed. The Jeyne Poole who had returned to Winterfell after the war cowered and parsed every word. “Your highness, Lord Rickon asked me to speak to you about Lady Sansa. He said you were asking where she might have gone if she was in trouble.” She paused and bit her lip. “There is one place I could think of … but …”

“Yes, Jeyne?” Jon said, using the reassuring voice he had practiced with so many of the men he had fought with at the Wall, men who could snap at a loud sound or a sudden movement. “Tell me what you know.”

“If Lady Sansa was in real trouble, then she would go to family first.” She gestured helplessly, and Jon thought that Jeyne knew plenty about being in danger and having no one to go to. “But I did think of one other possibility. She could go south into the Stormlands, to Tarth. Brienne, the Lady of Tarth, was sworn to Catelyn Stark’s service before her death, and she went on a quest to find Sansa and bring her to safety. Sansa barely knows Brienne, but it might be a haven where few would think to look for her.” 

“Thank you, Jeyne,” Jon said gently. “Was there anything else in Sansa’s letters to you that I might need to know about?”

“She didn’t say much about danger, but she wouldn’t.” Jeyne said. “Lady Sansa rarely speaks to anyone about her worries. But … I know why the Martells were upset with her. It seems … well … she was rather taken with King Aegon.” Briefly, Jeyne explained what had happened between Sansa and Aegon when the royal birth had gone wrong. 

Jon put his face in his hand. “Oh hell, Sansa,” was all he could think to say. 

“She was mortified,” Jeyne offered hesitantly. “I know it sounds foolish to you, but … she’s been lonely, these years. She says he is very handsome,” she flushed, “and he sounds romantic from her descriptions. The southern Septons say that women shouldn’t have needs or desires for men … but … it is no easy thing to live alone.” 

Jon nodded silently, embarrassed. He had come to know Jeyne well during the last months of the war. She had nursed the worst of the wounded at Castle Black. If she had found a purpose in work, first at the Wall, and then at Winterfell when she had unofficially taken over many of the duties of the steward, she had never regained the spirit of her youth. Her marriage to the loathed Ramsey Bolton and her disfigured face had scared off any suitors that might have looked past her lack of a dowry, but she had two base-born sons growing up at Winterfell, their paternity unknown. Jon hoped that they were a comfort to her. Of all the persons who had suffered in the war, he thought, Jeyne’s fate had been among the cruellest.

After speaking with Jeyne, and saying farewell to Rickon, Jon saddled Viserion. He took a last look at Winterfell, the home of his youth. The walls had changed little, and, although some of the buildings were still surrounded with scaffolding, they had the familiar lines he remembered from his childhood. Only the people were different. For a moment he imagined that he could see a younger self sparring with Robb under the watchful eye of Rodrick Cassel, and Bran scaling the stone walls like a squirrel. There were other boys playing in the yard now. As he took to the air, they ran to watch him, and he waved goodbye to them, feeling for a moment like he was waving to the boys of his memories. 

***

Songs and stories had told of the beauty of the Vale, but as Viserion cleared the mountains and the green land was laid out before them, Jon found his breath almost taken away. Rivers shone like silver in the sunlight and the green meadows they wound through were scattered with sheep like tiny clouds. The great mountain called the Giant’s Lance loomed above the valley, its slopes covered in snow. The pale stone of the castle called the Eyrie gleamed on a ridge of the mountain slopes.

He guided Viserion to circle the castle, but could not identify a place he felt comfortable landing, and dismounting. Finally, he found a stony ledge behind the castle, and brought the dragon in there. As soon as he dismounted and was clear of Viserion’s heat, Jon felt the damp cold seeping through his riding leathers, and he looked ruefully at the rocky slope above him. It was going to be a long, cold climb. 

An hour later, Jon was shown to a room with a crackling fire and a glass window looking over the Vale to wait for Robert Arryn. The heat was painful on his frozen fingers but he held them close to the fire until they were warm again. A servant brought him a cup of red wine and a bowl of hot soup with beef and barley and thick chunks of carrots, accompanied by crusty bread so hot that it burned his fingers and fine yellow butter that melted the instant it touched the bread. He devoured it hungrily, using the last of the bread to mop up the soup. Then he closed his eyes to doze.

After half an hour, as he was wondering if it would be good manners to ask for more soup, the thought began to surface in Jon’s mind that he was a prince of the realm. Surely this was not the sort of welcome that should be expected? Regretfully, he began to suspect that the soup he had just consumed was a slight. Although he was tempted to ask for more of the ‘insult soup’ and wait his host out, he did not want to lose time. He sighed, pulled himself to his feet, and went in search of Robert Arryn.

He eventually located the young Lord of the Vale on the parapets. Robert was seated on a stool, carefully tying a lure on the end of a line. A falconer stood nearby holding a fine blue-grey goshawk. Jon approached silently, and waited. Robert continued to work on the lure. “Are you busy?” Jon asked.

“My hawk needs to be exercised. After this, I have dispatches to read. Perhaps later I will hold court. A Lord Paramount has many responsibilities.” Robert looked meaningfully up at Jon. “I, myself, chose not to shirk them.” He stood, and gestured for the falconer to release the bird. Then he swung the lure on the line in a circle so that the bird could chase it. Jon stepped back as the bloody meat passed his head, followed closely by the excited hawk.

Jon ducked backwards to avoid the flapping wings. “Do you have a problem with me, Lord Arryn?” he asked. The lure and bird came around again, and Jon backed up another step.

“I do not have a problem with you. I could not care less if you jump out the moon door.” The lure came around again. “I told Sansa not to go to King’s Landing. I said that she could live here if you threw her out of her home for refusing your orders.”

Jon stared at Robert Arryn. Had he said that? He thought back to the fight on top of the Wall, and a nasty, cold feeling crept into the pit of his stomach. Sansa had not thought he was serious? “That’s why I am here,” he said carefully. “I’m looking for Sansa.”

Robert stared at him, and dropped the lure. The hawk shrieked and jumped on the meat. “You don’t know where she is?” he yelled. “You useless sack of crap!”

What followed was the most astonishing and humbling five minutes of Jon’s life. Robert started with name calling, moved on to a lecture about the duties of a chivalric nobleman to protect the women in his family, went back to name calling, harangued Jon about neglecting the duties that birth and position had placed on him, and finished with a graphic description of exactly why Sansa had been afraid to go to court after everything that had happened the first time she had been there, most of which Jon was hearing for the first time. By the end of the lecture, Jon had been backed all the way down the parapet until his back was against a wall. 

It was a shock, receiving a scolding from a boy who had been, famously, breastfed until he was eight years old. Worse was the realization that Robert was entirely in the right. Jon had nothing to come back with. 

Finally, Robert ran out of invectives, and stood silently, glaring. Jon took that as an indication that he might ask a question. “I know I need to set things right,” he said cautiously. “Do you know where Sansa might be?”

“If she was in trouble she would come to me,” Robert said simply, his anger banked. “I would shelter her here against anything. If she couldn’t get here, then she would send word and I would go to her.” There was no doubt or hesitation in his voice. 

“But you have heard nothing?”

“No.” His eyes were dark with worry.

Suddenly Jon saw Viserion, laying below on the ledge, start to flap his wings, and a huffing noise emerged from the throat of the beast. It was looking skyward. “What is it, boy?” Jon called. He received only a sensation of excitement. He looked up, but all he could see were heavy grey clouds, their base only a few hundred feet above the castle. Then Viserion roared, and a green blur dropped down through the clouds, and spread bronze and green wings to circle over the Eyrie. Rhaegal looked lazily down at the castle. A figure on his back gestured, and the dragon folded his wings and dropped until he hovered over the Eyrie’s central courtyard. The rider unfastened his straps in mid-air, jumped, and rolled gracefully as he hit the ground. Jon straightened, and prepared to greet his brother.


	14. Brothers

Aegon stood in the courtyard, making no move, waiting. Jon approached him, and bowed, taking the man’s measure as he did so. Aegon was a bit taller than Jon, and a bit heavier, but had a similar build. Jon suspected he would be quick in a fight, and his steadiness under spoke of self-control and confidence that might make him dangerous. Then he caught himself. This is my brother, he reminded himself. And my king. I am not here to fight him. Jon opened his mouth to offer greetings.

“Shit!” he said instead, as hundreds of pounds of hot scale-covered flesh and bone collided in the air above their heads. Visarion and Rhaegal were roaring and twisting their necks around each other as they dropped into the courtyard. Spectators had assembled to watch the arrival of the king and the reunion of the brothers; they scattered like mice as the dragons came to ground together. Screams filled the air. Jon saw a chicken coup shatter under a green claw and the number of winged creatures creating chaos quadrupled. His eyes met Aegon’s shocked gaze. The brothers looked at each other in dismay, then together they ran for their dragons. 

Neither of their shouts had much effect on the beasts. Jon cursed again, prolifically. Visarion’s mind was filled with excitement and happiness at the reunion, although he was fiercely determined to show Rhaegal that he was the stronger dragon. Jon’s attempt at diverting him bounced off the surface of the dragon’s mind with little more effect than his verbal calls.

“Everyone inside,” Aegon yelled, and the few people still in outside vanished. “Damnit,” he said more quietly to Jon. “They are going to crush everything in this courtyard.” 

Together they looked around. The Eyrie was a small castle surrounded by steep cliffs. The courtyard was obviously the main outdoor space for the inhabitants. The sound of bleating from an archway suggested that the goats and sheep had taken refuge indoors along with the humans, but the space was filled with pens and feed, small gardens in trenchers and piles of vegetables. Together they watched Rhaegal stagger backwards into a line hung with clothes, and emerge with a rope and a bright orange tunic wrapped around one leg. He turned away from Visarion to snap at it. Faces looked down at them from the parapets, from windows, from archways.

“Well,” Aegon said, a wry tone to his voice. “This is embarrassing. If we mess up here, our reputations as Dragonlords are not going to do the Conquerors and his sisters proud.”

Taken by surprise, Jon found himself laughing with Aegon. “I think our legends will survive a broken chicken coup.” Jon winced as Visarion snapped a chicken out of mid-air. “We may have to pay for a few chickens.”

Aegon grinned, and Jon thought of Robb, of how they had played together, learned to fight together, loved each other and competed in all things. Robb had been his opposite – bright where Jon was dark, strong and tall where Jon was wiry and graceful, joyful when Jon was brooding and bitter. He had known Aegon, in truth, only these few minutes, but it was a shock to look at this man, this stranger who was his brother, and to see for the first time, a thousand mannerisms, gestures, patterns of thought that were his own; all the things that had made him an outsider among the Starks were reflected back at him. How is a stranger who is no more me than the blood more myself than the family I grew up with, Jon wondered. 

“Rhaegal’s in harness,” Aegon said. “I’m going to try to get on his back.”

“You’re mad,” Jon told him. The two dragons were both flapping their wings, almost filling the small space. “They’ll calm down, and we can make our apologies. If they are really mad, well, the soup is good.” 

Aegon looked quizzically at Jon. Before he could say anything, one of the dragons knocked over a pile of hay bales, and everything changed. Four children, the oldest looking no more than seven, had been huddled together behind the makeshift shelter. They must have been too terrified to run, or even to scream or cry, thought Jon. The youngest was a boy wearing a shirt but no pants. He looked no more than three. Jon thought of Rickon as he had been before Jon rode north, of Bran when he was a child following at Jon’s heels. But he didn’t remember either of them looking as terrified as this boy as he clung to a girl little older than himself. Aegon cursed, and moved as if to go for Rhaegal. 

Jon slammed an arm into his chest. “Just keep them away from the children!” 

Aegon frowned, looking like he wanted to argue. Jon suspected that nobody had given his brother an order since he had come to Westeros. Then Aegon looked at the dragons, and at the terrified children. “Do what you can to fix this,” he told Jon. He moved forward, placing himself between the children and the dragons. Visarion hissed at Aegon and Rhaegal raised his spinal crest and roared. While the dragons were distracted, Jon ducked into an open archway. Several people stared back at him – an old man, a girl with her arm around a goat, two men-at-arms, a Knight of the Vale with a richly embroidered surcoat. There was nowhere to sit, so he slid down against the wall and closed his eyes.

The colours were different through the dragon’s eyes. That was always the first shock. He could see a thousand shades of red and orange, blues that shimmered in the light. Strangest of all, he could see heat a deep red bloom and cold as grey and black. Rhaegal was the brightest thing in this space of dim cold stone, but he could see the smaller figure standing beside the dragon.

In the back, Visarion knew what Jon had done and he raged and struggled for domination before stilling into resentful silence. When Jon had achieved control, he spread his wings and gathered himself for a leap into the air. The Eyrie fell away behind him. Rhaegal took wing after him, and they flew together, the sun on their wings, revelling in their strength.

Mountain goats were jumping down a rocky slope on the other side of the waterfall called Alyssa’s Tears. Jon stretched his claws, folded his wings, and fell upon the largest. The hot red blood ran down his throat as he tore at the beast’s flesh. Rhaegal was there, and that was good because he was no longer alone, but it was bad because he was a threat to Jon’s kill. Dragons hunted alone. Jon roared warning to his brother and bit his teeth deep into his kill.

***

Jon returned to his body to find himself nestled into a deep chair. While he had been in the dragon’s body, someone had walked him inside. For the sake of his dignity, he hoped he had not been carried. Jon opened his eyes and blinked hard. Slowly he became aware that he was being scrutinized from nearby. 

“Your legend has not suffered from today’s work,” Aegon said. “The people of the Eyrie will be talking about this for years to come.” His violet eyes were shadowed.

Jon looked around, checking the room for threats. He was in a chamber much grander than the one he had been initially shown to. Tapestries showing tales of the Winged Knight adorned the walls, and the furniture was upholstered in rich fabrics of cream and sky-blue. Jon and Aegon were in comfortable chairs by the fire. Robert Arryn was sitting in a window seat, at some remove from the two brothers, bundled up into himself and watching the two brothers intensely. Jon thought the boy looked more than half falcon himself. Then he wondered at the thought. The boy is just a boy. Do I think that the boy looks like a falcon because I know him an Arryn, or has a lifetime of being called a falcon made him think of himself as one?

“What are you doing here?” Jon asked Aegon, as he attempted to struggle upright. The soft cushions must have been stuffed with finest down. Whenever he thought he had a secure hold it melted away on him, and the fine silk coverings offered no purchase. Belatedly, he realized that his tone was less respectful than perhaps it should be. “Your grace,” he tacked on.

Aegon blinked slowly, indicating that he had noticed the belated honorific but chose not to make an issue of it. “I might ask you the same thing, brother. After receiving your raven that you were coming south, I took Rhaegal and came to meet you. We hunt in these mountains often.” He smiled and leaned forward. “Sansa is fine, Jon. I saw her two days ago at King’s Landing. Not a scratch on her.” 

Jon closed his eyes as a wave of relief swept over him. He looked like a bit of a fool, he knew, rushing south on a bad dream and an worrying letter, but he didn’t care. She was fine. This had all been one of his paranoid fantasies, no truth in it at all. Sansa was safe and well, and there was still time to pick up the pieces of the duty he had made such a mess of.

“Although …” Aegon hesitated, and Jon’s eyes snapped open. “A lot has happened in the past moon.”

He felt his stomach drop. “Tell me.”

“I blame myself entirely. I knew that Sansa was shaken when there was violence in my throne room. We all were -- but I never thought she was truly in fear for her own safety. Sansa … Sansa is good at what she does. All my councillors are good and I expect a great deal of them. Perhaps too much.” Aegon shook his head. “Be that as it may. I understand that your Maester wrote to her and suggested she leave?”

Jon nodded. He found himself flexing and stretching his right hand, a habit he had developed when he feared that the burns would compromise his ability to handle a sword. The scars had been lost after his resurrection left the flesh as smooth and supple as if it had never been burned. Strange, he thought. I haven’t caught myself doing that in years.

Aegon sighed. “Well, she did. Leave, that is. In the dead of the night, she and her captain of the guard snuck out through a water gate that had not been used in decades. The man had befriended one of the maids who was born in the castle, and she showed them where to go.”

“Your grace, with respect,” Robert Arryn interjected. He gave Jon a sly sidelone look, and a smirk, as if to make sure Jon noticed the address. “Could my cousin not simply have ridden out openly with a proper escort?”

“In truth, I would have stopped her,” Aegon said. “Sansa is on my Small Council, and she is privy to sensitive information about the realm. With all the tension, I would have objected to her leaving court.” He ran a hand through his hair. “But when she vanished in the night without an explanation, and nobody could determine how she had even left the castle, I assumed the worst. It seemed impossible that a woman like Sansa would have left of her own free will to ride through the woods almost alone. I doubt she had ever even slept out of doors. Edmure Tully and I sent ravens to all the Riverlands lords saying she was believed to have been abducted by her captain of the guards and persons unknown.”

Jon began to get a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“They made it surprisingly far given that neither of them knew the paths or had much woodcraft. It was pure luck that Lord Ashby’s hunting party encountered them just north of High Heart. He had seen Sansa at a Riverrun tourney where she was crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty and he recognized her instantly. He took her into his custody and brought her back to Harrenhal.” Aegon looked uncomfortable, and more than a little angry. “But they had hung her guardsman on the spot.” 

Jon flinched. He remembered the man – Joram the Bear he had been called – from when he was in Stannis’ service. Sansa had been attached to him, Jon knew. He dimly recalled Rickon saying that when she met the man she had taken to him immediately and refused to even consider candidates with superior blood and training.

“Lord Ashby said it was because of the raven about the abduction, but my men questioned his huntsman, and they said it was because …. Well, Sansa had some bruises and they thought that the man had taken liberties.”

Jon froze, feeling sick to the pit of his stomach, and Robert Arryn gasped.

“She swears nothing happened. I am inclined to believe her, but who is to know? The man called himself a Northerner, but he was Ironborn and he had been a sellsword in Essos before the War. In any event, Sansa was distraught when she was brought back to Harrenhal. Edmure wanted to take her to Winterfell, but she insists on staying with Tyrion – he’s been ill. The maesters say there is nothing wrong with her, but she doesn’t sleep and she barely eats.” Aegon glared at Jon. “Your maester doubtless meant well.” Aegon said. His tone was clipped. “But he should have minded his own affairs.”

“Perhaps,” Jon said, “you should make sure your councillors are not afraid for their lives while at your court.” Jon thought of Sansa in the woods, alone with a man of questionable reputation. What had she been thinking, he wondered. Then he thought of what Robert had told him, of all she had suffered as a child hostage of the Lannisters. It barely seemed comprehensible to him. Delicate, defensless Sansa. Who could ever want to hurt her? But it explained so much. 

They had talked about their time in the war, all the Starks. Rickon had tales of Skagos, of unicorns and hunts, but also of cold and hunger and fear of the Others. Arya had spoken of her travels with the Night’s Watch, her blacksmith, the Hound, even sometimes of Braavos, although Jon knew he had heard only a part of that story. Jon had kept much of the worst of his time in the war from the younger Starks, but they knew some of it from songs. Still, he had shared tales of Val and Tormund Giantsbane, of sparring with Wildlings and riding with Giants. Sansa had told her tales too – of a decadent and corrupt court, of her own foolishness for being infatuated with a Prince she now agreed was ‘a little shit.’ There had been no talk of beatings, or brandished crossbows, or being stripped and mocked before the court. 

Jon shook his head, and looked at Aegon. “There is something you are not telling us. Your grace. Why would Sansa have been so afraid that she fled into the night? Who would she have reason to be fear?”

Aegon blew out a long breath. “The list is longer than you might think. When we found she was missing, I first suspected Martyn Lannister. In truth, I expected to find a fresh grave in the woods. Sansa is Tyrion’s wife and in her prime childbearing years. If she were to produce an heir, Martyn stands to lose Casterly Rock. Then there are the Martells. I assume that you know that there is talk that I should put Arianne aside, and that if I were to wed again … well some have whispered that Sansa was almost Queen once and that she might now seek a crown for her sister, or even for herself if her marriage could be annulled.”

“I know that you have done plenty to fuel those rumours,” Jon said.

Aegon shifted under Jon’s glare. “I like Sansa,” he said defensively. “I think that perhaps she likes me, too, although she is not the easiest woman to read. That said, I behaved poorly during Arianne’s childbirth, I admit it. The Martells are sensitive about Stark women, after what happened between our father and your mother. My kin can be hot blooded. But beyond that …” his voice trailed off, he took a deep breath. “I myself may have had a part in her taking fright at Harrenhal. We had acrimonious words not long before she left – I was unhappy about some of the trade agreements she had negotiated for the north and I confronted her. I also questioned her about some recent events at the Twins. Does the name Alayne Stone mean anything to you?” 

Jon shook his head, mystified, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Robert Arryn stiffen. 

“Two years ago the bridge at the twins was damaged in a flood.”

“I am aware. The north has been bringing goods by ship, into White Harbour and Barrowton. We had to divert labour from Winterfell and the Wall to shore up the roads.” “Why are we talking about this?”

“A few months ago, the Freys discovered that the mortar they had been using to reconstruct the bridge had been tampered with.” Jon noticed that Robert Arryn suddenly seemed to find something fascinating in the designs of the carpet. Aegon was looking, too, and his lips quirked into a smile. “They were forced to tear down half a years’ worth of work. The Frey’s tribulations struck me as odd. I had my Master of Whispers and Master of Coin look into it, and they traced rather large payments to a Frey craftsman made by an Alayne Stone.”

Robert Arryn was now mesmerised by whatever he could see on the floor. Aegon gave him a cool look. “I need the support of the Vale, so I am not going to ask where the coin for that payment came from. But once we found that, we started looking deeper. Alayne Stone has some very unsavoury connections, including some of King’s Landings more popular brothels.”

“Again, this is all very interesting, but why are we talking about this?” 

Aegon looked at Robert. “Tell him.”

“Alayne Stone is Sansa,” Robert said reluctantly. “That is the name she used when she lived here during the war.” His face set defiantly. “And the Freys deserved to have their bridge fall down. They killed my aunt and my cousin. I hate them.”

Jon realized that his mouth was hanging open. He tried to wrap his mind around the concept of Sansa and brothels being linked in any way and failed. Until today, he would not have thought that Sansa even knew what a brothel was. He closed his mouth. “You told me off for not protecting Sansa from danger, and the two of you have been knocking down bridges together?”

“Calm down, Jon. Everyone is corrupt in King’s Landing,” Aegon said. “Sansa’s problem is that she was more effective at it than most. Still, she’s had a terrible shock. For her sake, I would be grateful if you could make plans to stay at court for a time.”

Jon had come south with the plan of going to King’s Landing, of seeing Sansa, and there was not an instant when he intended differently. If Aegon had suggested Jon not go, in his present mood Jon likely would have struck him. Yet, hearing his brother – his King, say the words, suddenly made it all real for Jon. Going to King’s Landing. He had known more than his share of Kings, long before he had met this stranger-brother before him. Ned Stark had been a king in all but title, ruling a north that cared nothing for lords outside its borders. Jon remembered him wielding Ice with his own hands to dispense justice, hearing the words of his lesser bannermen patiently. As a man grown, Jon could look back and see that his disappointment with Robert Baratheon, fat, jolly, impulsive, Robert, who would had killed Jon in a heartbeat if he had known who the boy was, had their foundations in the expectations set by Ned Stark. 

Then he had gone to the Wall, never to see the man he had called father again. He had met other kings there, though. Mance Raydar, who had no claim on the title except ability, who had knit together a disparate people facing annihilation, and had lead them to the brink of safety, only to be defeated by Stannis Baratheon, another King with less charisma, but an equal sense of duty to his people. He thought of what Jeor Mormont had said to him when Robb was named a king, when he had reminded Jon of the glories and riches his brother would know. Tell me you are not troubled, the Lord Commander had said, and I’ll call you a liar. What will you do? Jeor had asked. “Be troubled,” Jon had answered, brash and safe in the carelessness of his youth, “and keep my vows.” That had seemed so simple at fourteen. But what shall I do now, he wondered, when I no longer have my vows to guide me? 

Jon felt so utterly unprepared for the court of his brother. How can I help Sansa, he wondered. What do I know of her life in King’s Landing? He very much doubted that dealing with Selyse Florent Baratheon, the only southern noblewoman Jon had ever truly known, would be much assistance. He hoped not. 

There was a moment then, when he looked over the shoulder of the brother he didn’t know, that he thought of a girl with crooked teeth and hair kissed by fire. What he had felt for Ygritte had not been the all-consuming passion that he had felt for Daenerys, but he had cared for her, had fought beside her and against her, and she had forced him to question everything he thought he had known. Even after he lost her, Ygritte had walked with him in some of his darkest days. Now he thought of the words she had said to him so often. “You know nothing.” If he had been alone he would have smiled back at her ghost. I know nothing, but I can learn, I can see, I can help those who need me. Oh Ygritte, he thought, and loved and grieved. I know nothing, and those words taught me to see. 

***

The inhabitants of the Eyrie were treating the visitors as not officially here, Jon was told, to avoid the need for formal receptions and honours. Given that both of them had arrived on dragon-back, Jon thought that was a thin bit of deception, but he had no interest in ceremony and a great interest in the promised bed so he was happy to play along. Before retiring, Jon and Aegon agreed to set out at first light for King’s Landing. 

“I did have one question Aegon,” Jon said. His brother raised an eyebrow. “You spent, what, two days flying north to the Eyrie?” Aegon paused, then nodded. His eyes were fixed on Jon. “Quite a coincidence that you arrived less than an hour after I did. But then, a dragonrider who knew these mountains could find a good vantage point and wait until he saw us coming into the Vale.”

“So he could,” Aegon agreed affably. “On the Giant’s Lance, say.”

“What would that dragonrider gain by arriving after me, I wonder.” Aegon was silent, so Jon answered his own question. “Only the chance to speak to Robert Arryn and I together, and gauge our reactions. Robert isn’t a very good liar.”

“Neither are you,” Aegon said. “You don’t get too much practice, with that Stark honour of yours.” He shifted. “I learned that Robert Arryn was in on Sansa’s schemes, and that you weren’t. That is something worth knowing.”

“You don’t trust me.”

“I don’t trust anyone. From the time I was at my mother’s breast, people have wanted me dead. I am still alive. I have sat the Iron Throne for seven years. I am still alive.” He spread his hands. “Do you know that the Throne of Swords has never cut me? The trick is to remain still. Easier said than done. No, brother, I don’t trust you. You should get some sleep. We have a long flight tomorrow.”

Aegon turned away to go into his chambers. “It doesn’t work, you know,” Jon said to Aegon’s back. His brother didn’t look. “Not trusting anyone,” he continued into the silence. “I tried. You go a little mad, every day, and it gets worse and worse until you forget what it is to be human.”

Aegon didn’t move, and Jon waited as the silence stretched between them. “I wanted you to come,” he said. “But you aren’t the first man named Jon to betray me.” Then his brother walked away from him into his bed chamber, and quietly closed the door.

Jon stared after him. Jon was no fool; he trusted Aegon no more than Aegon trusted him. Yet Aegon had been open about his own hesitancies, he had given Jon no true grounds for dislike, and he had himself admitted that distrust was only to be expected between two stranger-brothers, one a king and the other a prince of the realm. Jon had wasted years fearing phantom daemons, he knew that … but. When he had been Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, he had opened the ledgers left by Jeor Mormont and had read the histories of the men he commanded. Jon knew the darkness in men’s souls. There was something in his brother that made the blood run cold in his veins. He flexed his unscarred right hand and touched Longclaw at his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I took so long with the update. This chapter was a bit of a bear to write and it went through a few drafts (RL has also been crazy). I feel a bit like I'm getting mid-story blues, so comments are appreciated (as always!)


	15. A Ford and an Inn

They left the Eyrie as dawn broke across the white-capped peaks surrounding the Vale. Rhaegar and Visarion jostled each other in the air, each attempting to be the lead dragon. Aegon pulled his mount in with a firm hand on the reigns and took him lower in the air, near skimming the rocky slopes. His brother was the better rider, Jon saw at once, with a good seat and a seemly-natural instinct for flying. Rhaegal was smaller by a third than Visarion. Jon suspected that it was the result of years of living in close quarters in King’s Landing while Visarion enjoyed the freedom of the skies near the Wall. The smaller wingspan made Rhaegal more manoeuvrable, thought Jon as he watched Aegon and his dragon dodge through a narrow pass. Used to long distances, Visarion locked his wings, and Jon let Aegon lead the way.

The light was coming from the west, golden light streaming over green woods nestled with small fields, when Aegon signalled that they should stop for the night. Ahead, as the dragons glided lower, Jon saw the setting sun shining on river far broader than any they had yet crossed. The river was wide at the point they were approaching, and it divided into dozens of shallow streams separated by wooded isles and sandbanks. As they glided in, Jon saw a road leading away north and south. Aegon lead them low on the approach, keeping away from the road, and brought the dragons into a meadow near the riverbank. As he followed his brother, Jon realized, with a sinking heart, where Aegon had brought them.

Rhaegal was already back in the air and flying towards the distant mountain peaks before Jon had removed his bags from Viserion’s back. He touched his dragon’s side. “Thank you,” he told the beast. Viserion looked at Jon and blinked his golden eyes, before leaping into the air and following Rhaegal. Jon envied the dragons their simple rivalry. He put his bag over his shoulder and went in search of his own (far more complicated) sibling.

He found Aegon sitting on a bank of the river, staring out at the water. Jon put his bag down and sat next to him. “You have brought us to the Ruby Ford,” he said at last. “Our father died here.” Aegon did not answer, but he nodded. “Do you come here often?”

“Sometimes. He was a fool, for more than your mother. If I had been in his place I would have taken that madman Aerys off the throne years before the rebellion.” Aegon shook his head. “He could have been unquestioned king of Westeros. Instead, he died here with blood and rubies in the water and men scrambling around him for the jewels. Stupid, stupid man.”

Jon looked out that the waters. “He did what he thought best.”

Aegon flinched. “For you. He left three of the Kingsguard to protect your mother when she was carrying you. I had only Varys and his schemes. And for my mother and our sister … nothing.” 

Jon sighed. “I have something for you,” he said. He stooped to unfasten his saddlebags and search through them. After finding what he was seeking, Jon dropped the long, thin, cloth-wrapped bundle into Aegon’s lap. “Here.”

“What is this?” Aegon said. When Jon didn’t answer, he peeled back the black wrappings until he could see the dark smoky gleam of Valryian steel. Jon heard his brother’s breath catch. Aegon slowly drew the sword out. It was small and light for Valryian steel, but then, Jon thought, alone of all the known Valryian swords, this one had been made for a woman’s hand. Aegon stared at it. “Dark Sister,” he breathed. He touched the sword at his side – longer and thicker, but with similar markings on the hilt: Blackfyre, retrieved from the Golden Company, the sword of Aegon the Conqueror. Dark Sister had been wielded by his sister Visenya. 

“The two ancestral swords of the Targaryen dynasty have not been together since the death of Daemon Blackfyre.” Aegon marvelled. “Dark Sister was lost in the Blackfyre rebellions. Where … How did you come by this?”

“Bloodraven carried it north when he joined the Night’s Watch. The sword came into my possession during the War. Daenerys carried it into the last battle. After what happened to her happened, I retrieved it from underneath Drogon’s body.”

“And you have had it all these years?”

“Your thanks are overwhelming. Truly, I am touched.”

Aegon raised his hand in mute apology. “I am grateful, more than I can say.” He looked out over the waters. “I have thought, over the years, of Dark Sister. I imagined a child of mine wielding it. Arianne and I had two children who lived past infancy. My son was only a year old when he died. He used to laugh and hold his arms out as soon as he saw me. The fever took him quickly. His sister’s death was less kind. We put about that she suffered the same, a sudden illness. That was a lie. It was the grey plague. Rhaenys, she was called, for our sister. I should have chosen a better fated name. She was old enough to understand what was happening as her body slowly turned to stone. For months, we were able to keep her amused, to read to her, to sit with her. But then the stone turned her blind and death, and she struggled to breath. The Maesters could do nothing to ease her suffering. They said she could live for weeks or months.” Aegon’s eyes were dark, and he stared out at the waters. “I was fond of my son, but Rhaenys, she was the only person I have ever truly loved.” He weighed the blade in his hands and looked at it for a long moment. Then he stood in a decisive motion, the sword in his hands. “This is not the blade of a Targaryen King. It was born by Visenya in the conquest, by Prince Daemon in the Dance of the Dragons, by Aemon the Dragonknight, by Bloodraven. The sword belongs to a younger son who has done great deeds.” He extended the sword to Jon, hilt first. “Take Dark Sister as your right as a Targaryen Prince.”

Jon blinked, stunned, and grasped the hilt of Longclaw. “I carry a Valryian Steel sword already. I cannot -- my old friend here and I have seen too much together for me to desert her.”

Aegon did not withdraw the sword. “I do not ask you to put aside your sword, but that blade belongs to House Mormont. Surely you will not deny it to their sons when they are born? I know that you have no trust in me, but someday I may have a son or a daughter that you love more. You may have heirs of your own. If you do not wish to wield Dark Sister, then keep it safe until you find a Targaryen heir worthy of it. Jon,” Aegon said softly. “We are the last two. There is no one left to wield it but you.”

Jon hesitated, then reached out and took the hilt of Dark Sister from Aegon. “I will keep it, but only until I find a worthy wielder.” But even as he said it, the sword felt right in his hand in a way it never had before. He could not help thinking how convenient the shorter length of the blade was, compared with the bastard sword Longclaw. “Pass me the cloth?”

Aegon picked up the fabric that the sword had been wrapped in, then frowned as he scrutinized the heavily darned black wool. He held the garment up to expose baggy knees. “Are these your undergarments?

“Spare pair,” Jon said. 

Aegon took them between thumb and forefinger and gingerly handed them back to Jon, who wrapped the sword securely before stowing it back into his back. Aegon frowned. “We will have a worthy scabbard made in King’s Landing.”

Jon nodded. He started pulling his kit from his bag – a bedroll, firestarter, a length of oil-cloth in case of rain. 

“What are you doing?” Aegon asked curiously.

“Making camp,” Jon answered. “Unless you feel like sleeping rough. I don’t mind.”

Aegon looked at the heavy grey clouds overhead. “That all sounds very practical and grim. So is the idea that I would spend the evening having serious conversation with you? We have been talking for ten minutes and this is already the most depressing evening I’ve had in years.” He hoisted his pack onto his shoulder. “But up that path, about half an hour’s walk, is the Inn of the Crossings. They have beds and ale, and both the food and the company is usually good. I plan to go get myself a warm meal and a drink. If you want to camp in the rain, I can come by and meet you and the dragons in the morning.” 

*** 

When Aegon had mentioned the Inn, Jon had imagined a small cottage-like structure. Instead, he found himself looking at three stories of rambling building with a stable nearly as big attached. The sound of laughter and raucous singing emerged from beyond the large oak doors. As they watched, a party of travellers emerged from the stables and disappeared into the busy interior. 

Jon hesistated. “Perhaps this is not such a good idea. I don’t like crowds. What if we are recognized?”

“Then we may have to buy a round of drink. Or perhaps someone will buy for us,” said Aegon cheerfully, as he pulled a cap over his silvery hair. “Don’t worry – I will do all the talking. All you need to do is sit back with a cup of ale.”

Inside, Jon hung back while Aegon exchanged greetings with the Innkeeper. Mistress Heddle was young but had a steely glare and an air of command that would have been the envy of any Wildling Spearwife Jon had known. Mistress Heddle – Long Jeyne – told them the Inn was nearly full, but that she could find a room “as it is you, Griff. And who is your friend?”

“My brother,” Aegon said. Jeyne gave Jon a sharp look, then sent them on into the common room with a promise of beef pies on the house.

“She knows who we are,” Jon said. At his insistence, they had sat down in a quiet corner where Jon could keep his back to the wall. Aegon had wanted to sit near the centre of the room where there was a game of dice going on, and he was sulking. Jon thought about trying to care, but it had been a long day.

“Not much gets by Long Jeyne,” Aegon said. “She and her sister Willow ran this place as an orphanage in the War. Most of the children are still here – I give them a bit of coin to help with dowries and apprenticeship fees.”

“You come here a lot?”

“This is the best place to find out what is going on in the realm.” Aegon said, lifting his cup to drink. “Everyone comes to the Inn at the Crossroads sooner or later. Take the smith, for example.” He waved his hand in the direction of a young man with a shock of dark hair. “He can tell me more about the trade in iron ore than anyone on my Small Council. If the North starts shipping ore to the Riverlands and undercutting the Crownlands, he knows. How do you think I knew to probe the collapse of the Frey’s bridge? His girl Nan is from the North. About a year ago I was here and she was gloating about it.”

Jon rubbed his eyes and wondered if his brother ever stopped talking.

Apparently not. “Nan – the smith’s girl, although they are on and off – she’s the most interesting person I’ve met here. Been absolutely everyone, done everything. Last time I saw her was more than a year ago. I hope he is not giving up on her.” Aegon looked around, then raised his hand to a dumpy serving man. “Hot Pie! What’s for dinner?”

As Aegon chatted to the strangely-named server and ordered beef and onion pie for them both, Jon looked around the room. No one was looking at him. It was a strange feeling to be anonymous. Since he had been elected Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, and then named Prince of the Realm, he had always been watched. Even before that, in the small society of the Night’s Watch, all the brothers of Castle Black had been known to him by sight. Amongst the Wildlings he had stood out as the Night’s Watch deserter. It came to him that the last time he had sat quietly, unnoticed, in a room filled with strangers, was when Robert Baratheon and his court came 

The common room was packed, with nearly every seat taken. Sitting on the benches down from them was a party of Silent Sisters. In the centre of the room, a group of northerners were loudly singing out-of-key songs. Another group, in the elaborate clothes of the Reach, looked disapprovingly at them. Jon knew the song, and caught himself as he was about to start humming along. The Silent Sisters were communicating via their language of hand signs. From what Jon could see there was a lively conversation going on even in the din of the common room. Several of the women were laughing out loud.

“Are you even listening to me?” Aegon said.

“Sorry,” Jon answered. Hot Pie returned and put cups of ale down in front of them.

“I was asking if you had noticed Willow Heddle.” He gestured, and Jon followed his direction to a maid with long brown hair who was talking to the smith. “Do you think she’s pretty?”

The girl was, Jon supposed. She was near as tall as Jeyne Heddle (her sister?) and had fair skin and delicate features. “Are you asking for some reason?”

“I could introduce you,” Aegon suggested. “Her mother was a Riverlands girl. She’s very much the type … if you like that.” He took a drink. “Of course, I recall that you liked tiny, silvery blonds.”

“Can we talk about something else?” Jon said. “I am not comfortable.”

“Better get used to it,” Aegon advised. “When you get to court you may need a stick to beat off the ambitious families with unmarried daughters. Don’t expect them to play fair, either. Not a few remember the honour of Stark men and the tale of Jeyne Westerling. I’d get some good guards if you want to find your bed unoccupied at night. It’s fun, but a man gets tired of being pursued. Now, an evening with Willow Heddle might be just the thing to warm up that cold northern blood …”

Jon put his cup down and gave his brother a cold glare. “I said, talk about something else.”

Aegon smirked. “Fine,” he turned his cup in his hands. “So, not a lot of shagging in the Night’s Watch?”

Despite himself, Jon laughed. “Are you serious? Most nights there were more men in the Moletown brothels than there were sleeping in the barracks. And the ones in the barracks weren’t always in their own bunks. Best thing about being named Lord Commander was getting private quarters.”

Aegon looked Jon up and down and his mouth quirked into a half-smile. “Then I guess a nice shoulder massage later is entirely out of the question?”

“By the Old Gods and the New, just drink your ale, Aegon.”

“Fine, fine.” They sat in silence for a moment. Aegon fidgeted and played with his cup of ale. “This is nice,” he said finally. “I try to sneak out sometimes at court, but the Kingsguard takes offence. I can see their point, of course. Even without a war, there are plenty of people who would not mind seeing a Targaryen dead. The first time anyone tried was not long after I had taken Storm’s End – I was walking back to my room and several of them came at me with knives. I was just lucky that Duck – Jon, are you all right?”

Jon jerked back as Aegon reached out to him, his face a mask of concern. Jon’s cup of ale spilled across the table. “Don’t touch me,” he said. For a moment all he could think of were tears on Bowen Marsh’s face, men screaming, and the feeling of cold.

Aegon pulled his hand back. “I didn’t think. I’m sorry.” 

“Could I have a few minutes alone?” Jon said. Aegon shrugged, nodded, and moved to talk to the party from the Reach. He sat down with them, and was soon part of their conversation. Aegon was calm and smiling, his earlier restlessness gone.

Jon sat alone in his dark corner, letting his breath return to normal. Years gone by, he reminded himself. Nothing to do with anyone here. The room was full of laughter and singing, and he felt himself relax. He used a corner of his cloak to wipe up the spilled ale, grateful that nobody seemed to have noticed his lapse.

Across one wall of the room there was a drawing of lines and small buildings. A map, Jon realized, and crossed the room to study it. It depicted the Inn and the roads which departed from it: the High Road to the Bloody Gate and the Eyrie; the River Road following the Red Fork of the Trident to Riverrun; the Kingsroad south to King’s Landing and north to the twins. Far at the top of the wall, the Kingsroad vanished. Printed beside it was an arrow and the words ‘to the North and Winterfell.’ Harrenhal was near due south of the Inn, a few days ride by Jon’s estimation. Whoever had drawn this map clearly knew the lands. Tiny holdfasts and landmarks had been painstakingly drawn with their names illuminated beside them. 

Jon’s eyes caught the words ‘High Heart’ next to a drawing of a circle of stumps on a hill. Aegon had said that Sansa had been found north of the place; Jon had assumed it was north or east of Harrenhal, on the natural course of riders making for the High Road. He saw now that he had been wrong. High Heart was west of Harrenhal. He drew a line with his finger from Harrenhal to a point just north of the hill, then continued it. He touched Riverrun.

But that makes no sense, he thought. Everyone he had spoken to had agreed that she was unlikely to go to Riverrun. Jon thought of Robert Arryn and his certainty that Sansa would go to the Vale. He thought of Jeyne Poole’s words, that in real trouble Sansa would go to family. Edmure Tully had not even been at Riverrun when Sansa had fled and Roslin Frey had been castellan. What could there have been at Riverrun to draw her there? For a moment there was something about his conversation with Jeyne Poole that tugged at his mind, but the thought slipped away as he tried to grasp at it.

He had not been certain that Sansa was as prone to fears and irrational actions as Aegon had suggested. She might be frivolous, and at times infuriating (Jon flashed to the letter she had sent from Gulltown), but he knew her not to act without thinking through the consequences of her decisions. She could have reached the Vale if she was in danger, he thought, by the High Road, or gone to Saltpans and taken ship north to White Harbour, or even south to Tarth. Riverrun was not the destination of a woman afraid for her safety. And yet she had run. He frowned, and worried at it like Ghost would worry at a bone, but it made no sense. 

In the midst of his train of thought, a hand suddenly reached from behind him and grasped his upper arm. There was an instant of fear, tension in every muscle, and the next thing Jon knew he had a knife in his hand and it was pressed against the neck of a Hot Pie as he bent the plumb young man back over a table. They were both wet with ale. Hot Pie’s eyes were wide with fear, and he held his hands out on either side of his head. “Just a cup of ale, ser! I was just bringing you a cup of ale!”

Jon let him go and stepped back, breathing heavily. The room was silent, everyone was watching him. He became aware of Aegon making his way through the crowd. “Jon! Are you all right? My fault. I sent him to bring you more drink. I thought it would help.” 

He reached out to touch Jon’s shoulder. Acting on pure instinct, Jon turned to brandish the dagger at his brother. “Don’t touch me,” he said.

“Hey there.” Jon looked over to see a muscular young man – the smith Aegon had pointed out – standing next to him. “Why don’t you put the dagger away and let’s go outside.”

Jon looked around the room. The crowd was silent, staring at him, although the Silent Sisters were gesturing rapidly to each other. “I never meant – that is I thought --” he said to the room. “I will go.” There was not a word in response from a soul present. Quietly, Jon turned and followed the smith out into the yard. The air was warm and still. Jon splashed some water from a barrel onto his face and leaned against a wall. What am I doing? He wondered. I drew steel on a man who wanted to offer me a cup of ale. I don’t know how to be around ordinary, happy people anymore. All I know how to do is kill. I am no use in peacetime. What possible use can I be to Sansa? 

The smith had not waited to see what Jon was doing. After leading him outside, the man had vanished into the stables. Curious, Jon followed him into a smithy that had been built onto the back of the building. The man was standing at his workbench, putting an edge on a long sword. He glanced up as Jon entered, then went back to his work.

“Sorry,” Jon said. 

“Don’t have nothing to be sorry about,” the smith said. “After the war, lots of men are a bit shaky. Not your fault.”

“I’m Jon,” he said, extending his hand.

“Gendry,” said the smith, pausing to clasp his hand before returning to his work. The silence stretched between them, but it was companionable. Finally, the smith filled it. “I know your sister.”

Jon blinked. “Sansa came through here? When?”

“Not her. The other one. Calls herself Nan these days, here. Calls herself lots of other things, too.”

“Arya?!”

“Met her in the war, when I left King’s Landing. Travelled together for a time. Then, few years after the war, she came back.” Gendry shook his head. “She likes the Inn, how there’s always new people to talk to. But she never stays.” He took a polishing cloth and vigorously rubbed the sword. “She never stays with me. Been two years now since I saw her.”

Jon stared at Gendry, astonished. To discover that he did not know Sansa as well as he thought had been unsettling, but to hear that Arya had a life, and a lover, he knew nothing of shook him to his foundations. He felt such a complete fool, and part of him wanted to hike back out to the River, and in the morning take Viserion back north where he couldn't do any further harm to anyone.

There was a soft knocking sound, and Jon looked up to see Hot Pie standing in the doorway. In his hands were a tray with cups of ale and a plate with, well, a hot pie on it. Jon could see the steam rising from the dish. A couple of men he recognized from the common room stood behind him.

“I am so sorry,” Jon said awkwardly. 

“No worries. I got you more drink,” Hot Pie said.

“We’ve all been there, lad,” said one of the men. He was grizzled and grey. “Tough to find a man – or a lass – in Westeros who hasn’t seen something he wouldn’t rather in these days. My guess is you’ve seen as much as any of us, and maybe a bit more. That commonroom was getting a bit close for my liking. Mind if we join you out here for a bit?”

Jon hesitated, then nodded. The three newcomers settled onto what seats they could find. Gendry looked a bit astonished at the invasion of his smithy, but accepted a cup of ale.

“I knew a man who was on a ship for Stannis at Blackwater Bay,” said the other stranger, a big man with the look of a Riverlander. Needed to go from a little village at the tip of Massey’s Hook to Duskendale. You could near see the town standing on the beach. He rode three weeks to get there by land: did his business, rode three weeks back. Couldn’t even look at a boat.”

As he spoke, a few more men came in from the stables wearing travelling clothes. Hot Pie offered around the remaining cups of ale.

The grey man nodded. “Once you’ve seen a battlefield, you’re never the same after. My grandad, he was in the Blackfire Rebellion. Forget which side, but after one of the fights he had a bad time with a crow. A real one, I mean, not one of the black brothers,” he hastily added. “No disrespect to them. But those birds … he was out trying to help his mate and this thing couldn’t even wait for he man to die. Grandpa had to hit it with a stick to get it off his friend. Hated the things ever since.”

There was a murmur of emphatic agreement from every man present, Jon included. “Fucking crows. Hate ‘em,” said one of the newcomers with a shudder. “Bloody things. Gobbling down the meat, right in front of ye.”

“So my grandpa always had a slingshot in his back pocket,” said the grey man. “And if he even saw a crow – bam! When he got too old, used to pay us kids to kill the things. Lived to be ninety-six and he used to go pale every time he heard a croak. When he died we put a wreath of dead birds on his grave.”

“Good start,” another man said, and they all raised their cups to the idea of the crow-wreath. “Now, who’s for a round of dice?”

Dice sounded good, and Jon ate the last few bites of his pie while one of the men found a table to play on. He still felt his heart shuddering, still dreaded the thought of the court of the Red Keep, but he felt the fear easing. Amidst the laughter and comradery, so unexpectedly found from strangers, Jon looked up, and saw Aegon standing in the shadows just outside the door to the smithy, watching them from the darkness. Jon opened his mouth to invite his brother to join the group. Before he could speak, Aegon turned his back and vanished into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had a few requests for Jon/Dany flashbacks. Although I have written a bit, I haven't been able to find a place in the story where they work. Would people be interested if I posted a few scenes as a prequel? 
> 
> Also, I have a tumblr at bluecichlid.tumblr.com where I post about ASOIAF and fanfiction. I've put some of my research for this story up there if anyone is interested. I also have an ask box that's always open.
> 
> Also, thanks to everyone who asked about the swords! This chapter is for you guys!
> 
> Next chapter is the long awaited reunion between Jon and Sansa. Elia Sand is also not far away.


	16. King's Landing

Jon had expected King’s Landing to be big, but when he finally saw the capital stretched out in front of him he nearly could not breathe in astonishment. He had imagined something like the Winter Town at Winterfell, built to house twenty thousand people, or perhaps a settlement twice or thrice the size. He had seen the Wilding migration of Mance Rayder and the gathering of armies to fight the Others, but nothing had prepared him for the sight of a city built for half a million people stretching on and on before his eyes. 

On an impulse, he urged Viserion lower so that he could see the streets, and the people moving about their business. He stared at the sight of the Great Sept of Baelor and the ruins of the Dragonpit, with great throughways connecting the hills and a warren of tiny backstreets branching out from the wide streets. He saw squares with the bright tents of merchant’s stalls, and the sparkle of fountains where children played. A person could walk a year, he thought, and still find new sights in this, the greatest city of Westeros.

Today must be a celebration. He saw people streaming out into the wide areas. Cheers reached his ears. He wondered what it was for, and if a Prince of the Realm might be able to sneak out and mingle with the crowds. Before his stop at the Inn of the Crossings, the idea of being in a crowd of strangers would have filled him with trepidation, but now Jon was eager to re-experience the thrill of anonymity.

Viserion wheeled by a group of people on a roof. Adults were holding children up to see, he noted with surprise. He waved to them, and they broke into cheers. “The Prince, the Prince!” They called out. “The White Dragon!”

Jon stared at them, shocked, then looked around. The streets were full of people – and every face was looking up at him. He gestured for Viserion to hover over the widest road, which ran from the Great Sept to the Dragonpit. The crowd there fell silent. Jon felt his face grow hot, and he imagined he was blushing as red as a rose. He counted himself fortunate that he was high enough above the people that no one was likely to see. Awkwardly, he raised his hand in greeting to the crowd.

The street erupted with shouting. Emboldened, Jon waved again. He wished suddenly that all his departed comrades from the Wall, so many of whom had died alone and unheralded, could be here for this moment, to hear the shouts of praise and gratitude from the people they had protected. 

Rhaegal’s shadow fell over them, and Jon saw his brother gesture towards the heights of the Red Keep. With one last glance at the crowd, Jon followed him. Aegon guided them to the highest hill, where Maegor’s Keep loomed over the city. Rhaegal descended into a wide courtyard and Viserion followed his brother. As they dismounted, Jon saw that Aegon’s face was dark with annoyance. His brother looked at him, then turned his back to stroke Rhaegal’s head.  
The courtyard they were in appeared to have been set up as a dragon den. A pile of fine gravel in the corner appeared to be Rhaegal’s bed, and a number of firepits surrounding it were burning even in the warmth of the summer sun, keeping the space so hot that Jon could feel the sweat dripping down his back. Viserion looked about approvingly, then moved to curl up between two of the largest fires. Plainly dressed servants hurried to throw more wood on the fire, and Jon heard the bleating of goats in the distance.

Satisfied that his dragon would be well cared for, he looked around. A flight of steps lead up to the interior of the castle. A small group had gathered at their base. These people were far better dressed than any he had seen so far. Most were in bright colours and flowing silk robes, but a few were dressed in more muted shades of grey and blue cut in modest styles. The crowed parted, and a woman glided forward, attendants behind her. She stopped several feet from Aegon, so that Jon stood between them. Aegon nodded to her. “My Queen, Arianne Martell,” he said, briefly and formally. 

With a sudden shock, Jon realized that the woman he was meeting was not only his Queen, but in fact his good-sister. He had never met Jeyne Westerling, while Lyanna Mormont was a distantly familiar figure of his youth. (He resolutely refused to think about Bran’s tree.) He bowed cover his confusion, and Arianne gave him a tight, but not unkind, smile. “Your highness, your presence honours our court,” she said.

Jon realized that she was as tense as he was. “Your Grace, I should have come to you sooner,” he said. I should have known you, he thought, in better times. When I had the chance. Looking at his brother and good-sister, he could see no warmth between them. Aegon looked past Arianne, and his dark expression vanished a sudden smile crossed his lips. Jon followed his gaze.

Sansa stood at the head of the small flight of stairs, looking down at them all, in a column of grey silk. Her hair was caught in a hairnet, and there was silver embroidery at the cuffs of her sleeves, but she wore no other adornment. Jon though of her as he had seen her last, on the Wall with wind whipping at her skirts and cloak, looking like she was about to take flight. She had been childish, petty, brave, and defiant that day. Now her face was calm, as beautiful and still as a marble statue looking down at them. Aegon moved towards her like water pulled by the tide, leaving his Queen and his brother behind.

Jon gave him a sharp look. “If I might, Your Grace?” he asked Arianne, and she nodded, her eyes dark. He followed his brother up the steps, a couple of paces behind. Sansa watched them come, making no move to come forward. Aegon closed the distance between them and hesitated. “My L – Lady Sansa,” he corrected himself. 

“Your Grace,” Sansa said. She bowed her head and dipped into a graceful curtsey, her back perfectly straight. When she straightened, Jon saw that they were of a height, and she met Aegon’s gaze, her expression neutral. Aegon reached out and put his hand in the small of her back, drew her close, and kissed her on the cheek. Their eyes met, and it seemed to Jon that there was an exchange of silent communication between them. In unison, they looked at Jon.

Then Aegon stepped aside, leaving Sansa and Jon facing each other. She ducked her head. To his dismay, Jon realized that she was curtseying to him, as well. “Sansa, no,” he said. “Not to me.” He stepped forward, and gave her a smile to reassure her. She froze, and he stopped, uncertain what to do to repair all the things that had been torn asunder between them in the last months, on the Wall, all their lives. He put his hand on her shoulders. When she did not pull away, he gently hugged her. She was stiff against him, her body shivering. Then she pulled back, and he looked into her eyes.

Years ago, in the war, he had known the Melisandre, the priestess of the Red God and he had stood in her presence as she lifted a glamour from the man he had called the Lord of Bones. He had seen the man’s features run like hot wax and reform into those of Mance Rayder, and he had known that he had been deceived. As he met the cool gaze of Sansa Stark, whom he had called sister for most of his life, he wanted to look about for Melisandre with the jewel at her throat and wait for her to lift the glamour, and show him that this was not Sansa Stark. And then she smiled, impossibly sweet and gentle, and he knew her again.

He realized that Arianne had joined them at the head of the stairs, standing several feet from her husband. “Prince Jon, I would like you and Lady Sansa to dine with us, and with my cousins, this evening.”

Jon looked at her in dismay. After a long day in the air, he felt entirely unready for a formal dinner with royalty (even if he might be technically included in that category). When he hesitated, he saw Sansa’s face was pale. “You do us great honour, My Queen,” she said. 

He mentally winced, realizing that refusing the invitation was not an option and that he had just embarrassed Sansa and possibly insulted Arianne. “I am overwhelmed,” he said, not untruthfully. He looked down at his riding leathers, and mentally inventoried the meagre contents of his baggage. “I do fear that I lack the attire appropriate to your table.”

“I will send you one of my own doublets,” Aegon said. “I have a black and gold outfit that was made over from morning wear. It’s very dour – you’ll love it. But we should not stand on ceremony. I am certain that your cousin wishes to conduct you to your quarters.”

Sansa nodded to him, and looked expectantly at Jon. After a moment’s hesitation his old lessons in etiquette returned, and he offered her his arm. With another graceful curtsey, she took leave of the King and Queen. 

Silently, Sansa led him through the winding corridors of the Red Keep. Jon though how easy it would be to get lost, and carefully counted the turns they took so that he could find his way out to Viserion if nothing else. He tried to speak to her, but she simply shook her head and pressed a finger to her lips. The further they moved into the castle, the more he had the sense that the building had been intended as a trap, a repository of secrets, a place of shadows. Then he thought of how confidently Sansa moved through these spaces. Courtiers and servants, he noted, cleared her path with as much deference as he had seen given to any Queen. She led him to a set of wide double doors which she unlocked with a key. 

“First lesson,” she said, as she pulled him into the room and secured the doors behind herself. “Assume someone is listening or watching at all times. We can speak freely enough in here. I know who is listening.” 

He took little note of the room other than that it was huge and empty. No threats. “Sansa, I am so sorry.”

Sansa turned, raised her hand and slapped him full across the face.

Jon staggered back, more in shock than true pain. Sansa seemed near as surprised by what she had done as he was. She grabbed her hand. “Ouch,” she said in a small voice. “That hurt. I never hit anyone before.”

“I suppose I deserved that, but could you please not make a habit of it?” He rubbed his face and waited for the stinging to go away. “This is going to be a long journey if you plan to start every conversation by smacking me.”

“Journey,” she said. Her face paled even further. “You’ve come here to take me back to Winterfell.”

Jon stopped, reassessed. “Sansa, a moon ago you were sneaking away from Harrenhal in the dead of night. Before that you were writing letters about how frightened you were. You’ve been begging me to come. I assumed you wanted to leave.” She was silent. Jon spread his hands, a month of fear and frustration coming to a head. “Sansa, what happened?” 

She shook her head, and half turned away from him. “I did what you sent me here to do. I played the game of thrones. I was arrogant and stupid and I made mistakes. At Harrenhal it all came to roost. I made another stupid mistake and tried to run away. A good man died.”

“What do you mean: mistakes?”

She raised her chin. “I am not going to tell you.” 

“The hell?” She said nothing, not even to protest his language. “Seriously, Sansa --” he trailed off. She just looked at him and waited. Jon pressed his fingers to his temples and took a deep breath. He had worried about dozens of possibilities on his flight south. This one had never occurred to him. He had thought that he could come to King’s Landing and speak to Sansa, that she would tell him what he needed to know, that the they would fix the problems together. Now it was becoming clear that things were going to be far more difficult than he had thought. “Why not?”

“Why would I? You show up here on a dragon, with no more knowledge of the court than a monkey, with no connections and no idea of the political situation, and you expect me to just turn things over to you? Like I am some damsel in distress? I got myself into trouble; I have plans fix things. None of those plans involve you.”

“A monkey? I was elected Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch when I was sixteen.”

Sansa sighed. “Jon, I am asking you to let me make my own decisions. If mistakes are made I bear the consequences. Let the mistakes be mine and not yours.”

“You cannot expect me to be content with that, Sansa.” He shook his head. “You’ve been knocking down bridges – and dragging Robert Arryn into your schemes. You could get yourself killed. It has to stop.” 

“What you are content with is entirely your own affair.”

“And if I order you to go back to Winterfell?”

She smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Tell me, Your Highness, Lord Regent, what possible authority you believe you possess to give orders to the wife of Tyrion Lannister. I am not yours to command.” She shook her head. “You should go home. Go, and leave me here.

He thought of Robb, of her serious blue eyes and steady sense of purpose, and he answered for both of them. “I cannot leave you in danger.”

“There is always danger at the Red Keep.” Sansa sighed, and her eyes softened. “But, Jon, even if there was not – what would you have me do at Winterfell? Go begging to Lyanna Mormont every time I need a length of fabric to make a new dress? Be looked over by the bannermen who put the Starks back in Winterfell, and now think one of them is owed a Stark bride to repay the debt?” She wound a lock of hair around one finger. “Aegon has put me on the Small Council in my own right.”

“Aegon is a manipulative self-centred shit, and out there he was a finger width away from feeling your ass in front of his Queen and half the court.”

“Language, Jon,” she snapped. “Men have been staring at me, and more, since I left the nursery with my hair in pig-tails. What are you going to do, call your brother out?” She made the suggestion as if it was absurd, although Jon felt differently. “If we were not both married to other people, Aegon might ask you for my hand.”

“He said that Tyrion is sick. How sick?”

“Sick enough that he is not going to get better. Since Harrenhal, sick enough that he and I cannot conceal it anymore. And before you ask, yes, Arianne knows.”

“And we are all going to have dinner together?” Jon shook his head. “Sansa,” he added. “You do realize that this is my first day at court.”

“You fought the Others, Jon.”

“Yes, but we didn’t all sit down and have dinner together first. Do you like Aegon?”

“Aegon and I … understand each other,” she said quietly. “I could hardly do better as a match, could I?”

“That is not a yes. He is no friend to the family.”

“What do you want from me, Jon?” She wrapped her arms around her waist. “What do you know about what I want? What do you know about my loyalties?”

“Please, let me help you. Talk to me.”

“You want to talk? Then you talk. Where have you been? You owe me that much at least.”

“I … I was at Bran’s cave for most of the time.”

She drew back then, and her face crumpled. “Oh,” was all she said. He reached out to touch her, and she turned away, her motion sharp. “That’s all.”

“Sansa,” Jon said awkwardly. “Things have been complicated. I don’t expect you to understand.” He said the words before he heard them, before he saw her eyes widen. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said.

She just shook her head. “So what did you mean?” she asked. 

“You are right, I do owe you that,” he said and stopped. Bran knew, and he had told Sam, but he found the words freezing in his chest. “I owe you more, I know that. I … I haven’t been doing well for a long time. I kept thinking I would get better … I don’t even know. There would be entire moons when everything was just grey. Sam knew, but I kept it from everyone else. I was afraid …” He stopped, took a deep shuddering breath, and found the words again. “When things got too bad, I used to go north for a time until I could pull myself together. I would live in some of the old wildling villages or just sleep under the stars. After we had our fight …” she stirred at that, and he raised his hand to stop her. “Please just let me finish. I had a bad time again, and I went north like I had before. I couldn’t think beyond a day, I was hungry but I could barely bring myself to eat. I thought it would pass.” He took a breath. “Then I lost control of Viserion.” 

Sansa went ashen.

“I remember being on the ground with him standing over me. He thought about killing me, I know that. He didn’t hate me, but he is a dragon. I had forgotten that. They want to be free.” 

“Who doesn’t?” Sansa said. “Why didn’t he do it?”

Jon shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe because I was Daenerys’ mate. All I know is that he took wing and left me there in the forest. I likely would have died anyways if Ghost had not been with me. He led me to Bran’s cave. Bran and the Children helped me regain control of my own mind, and then to bring Viserion back. We recast the spells that bind him to me – and I came to know him as a warg. Our bond is stronger now.”

“And you brought Viserion to King’s Landing?” Sansa stared at him, incredulous. “What happens if you lose control again?”

“Bran has placed suggestions in his mind – if anything goes wrong Viserion will leave King’s Landing and go to Dragonstone. There have been feral dragons on the smoking mountain in the past – hopefully he will do little enough damage.”

Her eyes widened, and then she dropped her gaze. Jon had the impression that Sansa was thinking hard. Then she raised her gaze again. “You should not be here.”

“I cannot leave. Not without you. You can rage at me all you like, but you won’t be rid of me that easily.” He paused. “Besides, now you can insult me in person, without the bother of sending letters.”

Sansa’s lips quirked in something that might have been a smile. “I am glad to see you, Jon. And I know you’ve been worried. I’m flattered, in fact.” She gestured to the other end of the cavernous space. “You haven’t even looked at it.”

What? He was about to speak. Then he looked.

The late afternoon light cast beams of sunlight through the room, dust sparkling in the air. The Iron Throne was in shadow. It lurked over the empty room like a dragon guarding its kill. He started to move towards it almost without violation. The throne a dozen of his ancestors had sat. He thought of Aegon the Conqueror who had wrought both the throne and the kingdom out of nothing. If things had been different, he thought, I might have sat that throne, and not my brother. Then he shivered at the idea. What had brought that thought into his mind? He had never wanted the throne.

He realized that Sansa had come to stand beside him. “What are you thinking?” she asked. “Prince Jon of the House Targaryen?”

“I am a Stark, too.”

“Our grandfather Rickon was burned alive in his armour in this room, and Brandon Stark strangled himself trying to save him. Father sat that throne.” She fingered a pin on her dress, a bright silver pin shaped like a bird. “Less than a month later they cut his head off on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor. I remember how his legs kicked, after. You might do better to be a Targaryen. Starks don’t do well in King’s Landing.”

“Sansa,” he reached out to touch her arm, and she stepped back abruptly. 

“Father died because he trusted the wrong people. You don’t know anything about me,” she said. “You don’t know what I am capable of.”

“That’s true. We don’t know each other. We haven’t tried. But you are my sister, no matter what anyone says and you cannot expect me to just walk away.” He gave her a moment of silence, hoping, but there was nothing except sadness in her eyes. “I have one question. If you will answer it.” He waited, again, but she said neither yes nor no. “Why Riverrun?”

“What?” That startled her.

“Your plots went bad at Harrenhal, so you ran. Why did you go to Riverrun? That’s the first place anyone would look for you. Plus, Roslin Frey? When you knocked down her family’s bridge? Why there?”

“I told you, it was a mistake. I wasn’t thinking clearly,” she said.

She was good, he had to admit that. As a child, Sansa had no natural gift for lying. Truth was, she did it rarely enough. What she loved, though, was to tell tales. All the siblings had known to never tell Sansa anything they did not wish to get straight back to their father. She had learned to lie. Even he would have been fooled. But she had never learned to hide that flash of smug satisfaction when she thought she had one over someone else. It was there in her eyes now. 

There is something I am not seeing, he thought, and she knows it. And the thought came back to him just as it had in the Inn of the Crossings: Riverrun is not the destination of a woman in fear for her life. Would Sansa act without thinking? No, he answered himself. Joffrey had that beaten out of her long ago. Nothing made sense – he didn’t trust Aegon, or Sansa, or even Arianne. He might seem the fool, he thought, and if he might be a Prince, he was not too proud to play one. He nodded to Sansa as if he believed her. “Well, I hope you will think more carefully from now on.” 

Sansa smiled. She stood up and extended her hand to him. “I have arranged chambers for you near to Tyrion and I.”

“Oh, I get chambers? I was planning to just camp in the gardens and hunt the palace dogs for food.”

Sansa stared, and then put her hand to her mouth as she started to laugh. “Oh Jon,” she said. “I’ve missed you.” She closed her eyes, and her laughter turned into a long, shuddery breath. For a moment, he thought she might be fighting back tears, but her eyes remained dry. She took another deep breath. 

He put his hand on her shoulder. “Everything is going to be all right,” he told her. There was a long silence, and he sighed and took his hand away. “Let’s go find my quarters so I can toss some uncured animal skins and gnawed bones on the floor to make me feel at home.” He turned towards the double doors, mentally bracing himself for the winding corridors and curious eyes of the courtiers. He took a few steps.

“Jon?” Sansa’s voice was sudden, sharp, almost a strangled cry. He spun. She had not moved, standing almost frozen before the lurking throne. The echoes of her voice rang off the stones and died. She opened her mouth to speak, but not a word came out. “Nothing,” she said finally, and she was silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments appreciated, as always!


	17. A Song of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I promised the dinner party scene, but the chapter became too long so I've had to split it up. Elia and the Martells are up next!
> 
> Thanks to Wendynerd for her comments on the draft. All mistakes are my own. I recommend Wendy's story Trials and Tricks, which has plenty of plot-heavy intrigue and romance.

As the daylight waned, dark clouds blew in from the sea and the wind howled around the Red Keep. The night was not cold – not this far south, not in summer – but the air moved like warm fingers on skin. Jon’s chambers had windows glazed in expensive green-tinged glass set into small panes. Still, drafts blew in under the door and set the bed curtains swaying as the candles flickered until his room was full of dark moving shadows. Jon tried to peer through the glass to see the fabled lights of King’s Landing, but his window must have faced over the Broadwater. All he could see was the dim lights of ships in the bay. 

He paced about the chambers. He had bathed, brushed his hair, and put on his best shirt and hose. Then he had been left with nothing to do while he waited for the arrival of the doublet Aegon had promised. The rooms were spacious and as well appointed as anything he had seen at Winterfell. Suitable, he supposed, for the King’s brother. It stuck him that these rooms might have belonged to various lesser members of the royal family over the years: Targaryens, Baratheons, and Lannisters. He wondered who they had been, and what fates they had met. He shivered despite the warmth, and for a moment the night felt darker. 

He opened and closed the drawers and chests where he had stored his possessions. After some thought, he had placed Longclaw and Dark Sister in their own drawer, wrapped in a blanket. Jon opened the drawer to admire the smaller sword. After his conversation with Aegon at the Ruby Ford, it seemed to be his in a way it never had before. He pulled it free from its wrappings and held it up to the light, admiring how easily the blade moved in his hand. Then he had a flash of guilt and placed it away safely beside Longclaw. 

A knock on the door was followed a blast of wind as the door opened and the entrance of a man carrying a dark bundle. Jon took the garment and shook it out. It was black, as Aegon had said, but far more sumptuous than anything he had ever worn. It was made of finest heavy silk, with a gold pattern of dragons decorating the neck, wrist, and hem. Jon glumly wondered if it was too fancy for a private dinner. More than likely, this was some sublet jest of Aegon’s at his expense.

“A fine garment,” the man said. A waft of fragrant scent reached Jon’s nose, and he tried not to sneeze. “Suitable for a Prince of the Realm. Do you find it pleasing, Your Highness?” Jon looked gave the man a sharp look. This was no servant, that much was apparent. The man placed his hand on his chest and gave an obsequious bow. “Lord Varys, Master of Whispers, at your service.”

“Do members of the small council usually deliver clothes?’’

“We all serve in the manner the king thinks best,” Varys said. “But, I thought, perhaps, that we might benefit from knowing each other. We share common goals.”

“Which goals are those?”

“You’ve come to the Red Keep at a dangerous time, Your Highness. Martyn Lannister now knows that his cousin is dying. He is riding from Casterly Rock as fast as horses can carry him to secure his inheritance. Martyn fancies himself the equal of Tywin Lannister, but he is a less of a fool than he may seem. Margaery Tyrell has taken residence in the Maidenvault, in chambers rather less grand than those she occupied when she was last at court, a point which is not lost on her. She dreams of making her cousin a Queen. Shireen Baratheon wants her old friend Davos to be Hand of the King and her agents at court spread whispers against the Tyrells since they can find little with which to impugn Garlan Tyrell personally. Meanwhile the Sand Snakes are gathering to protect their Queen as she fights to keep the crown she gave up Dorne for.” Varys gave a mirthless giggle. “But none of them wonder why no one sleeps well in the Red Keep these days. All of our sleeps are haunted by dark dreams since the court left Harrenhal.”

A gust of warm wind touched the back of Jon’s neck, and the candles flickered. “I fail to see what bad dreams have to do with me.” Jon had nightmares enough of his own. 

“You are one of the few people at court who understands that there is more to the world than what we see and hear. The court went to Harrenhal, a place of curses, and it has not returned unchanged.”

Jon thought of Bran’s words about blood on the stones. But he did not trust this stranger. He had seen more than enough magic in his time, but he had seen as much chicanery and superstition, and fear used for men’s own ends. “Am I supposed to be quaking in fear?”

“You wish to take Lady Stark back to Winterfell. I have also offered the lady my support if she wishes to leave Aegon’s court, and I was refused.”

Jon shook his head. “It makes no sense.”

Varys’ eyes were shadowed, and Jon had the impression that this ‘Master of Whispers’ was far less unenlightened than he was. “I think you will find that very few of the lady’s actions are without purpose. She is frightened, embittered, self-sufficient; she trusts no one. My king sees only her beauty – she hides behind it like an assassin hides in the shadows. But Lady Sansa is at the heart of all that has gone wrong. I would see her removed from this court.”

That sounded perilously close to a threat to Jon’s ears. He kept his expression in a neutral ‘northern yokel’ expression, and merely asked Varys’ guidance to the quarters of the Hand.

The halls Varys guided Jon through were near deserted. The few courtiers they met were quick to clear Jon’s path, bowing to him. Jon wondered how many of them had raised steel to royalty in the past, and how long it would take them to turn on him if he showed weakness. Likely not long, he thought, and he wondered if it was etiquette to wear chainmail in the Keep. 

“I hear that you have requested the pleasure of lunch with Loras Tyrell.” 

Jon concealed a wince. Sansa had arranged for the message to be sent, but she warned him the invitation was unlikely to remain secret for long. Jon did not mind for himself, but he knew that Loras was uncomfortable with public attention. “He fought at the Wall,” Jon said. “And has returned to serve a year twice since.” 

Loras had been a demon in the fighting against the Others. Jon had been forced to relieve him of any command after it became apparent that the man hoped to die in honourable combat. Contrary to his hopes, he had suffered wounds that the Maesters cured and had been sent home to his family. He had become a recluse, taking little companionship and living like a ghost in his sister’s household. Dark rumours had spoken of suicide attempts. “I care for my own.”

“Admirable. And you may gain the gratitude of the Tyrells.”

Jon shrugged. Other than Loras, he could not give less of a shit about the fickle Tyrells.

“Loras is politically useless,” Varys said. “He has no friends, no connections other than his family, and terrible instincts for politics. If you hope to get aid there, I fear you will be sorely disappointed.”

“Thank you for your assistance, Lord Varys,” Jon said, not bothering to conceal the coldness in his voice. He thought of all the men who had died to protect Varys’ world of the court, men Varys would dismiss as being of no use. No wonder Varys could not see the purpose in Jon’s meeting with Loras. He nodded dismissal.

“Where do you think you will find truth, Prince Jon? You will not find it in the Lion’s Den – not from the dying Hand, or from his lady with a heart of ice.”

“Perhaps I will find it in the most unexpected of places,” Jon answered. He thought suddenly of Samwell Tarly, of Ygritte, of Grenn and Pip, of Val, even of Stannis Baratheon. “I do have that history, although I have done little enough to deserve it.” 

Jon turned his back on Varys and mounted the stairs to the Tower of the Hand. As he climbed, the wind brought the sound of a harp to his ears. The music was halting and the player missed near as many notes as were hit. The wind brought snatches of the song to his ears, and Jon recognized the tune of Brave Dany Flint. At the top of the stairs, a Lannister guards-man opened the door and warm golden light spilled out.

The quarters of the Hand of the King were the most lavish chambers Jon had ever seen, and clearly belonged to a man who did not give a damn about his possessions. Books and papers were piled on top of tables inlaid with gold and mother-of pearl. A wine-stained doublet and what appeared to be a set of small-clothes, also stained with what Jon hoped was wine, had been dropped in the centre of a plush Myrish carpet. For good measure, the wine skin had been dropped as well and had leaked a dark red blotch across the rug. 

Tyrion himself was laying on a daybed. The covers were pulled up tight around his chin. His face was grey. Sansa was sitting on a stool by his side, with a pen and parchment in her lap. She hastily moved to put her notes down as Jon entered. 

Like everything in the room, the Hand’s wife looked refined and lovely. Sansa had changed into an evening gown the colour of smoke, and her hair was tied up with white ribbons. Her cheeks and lips were noticeably more colourful than they had been when they had parted, giving her a doll-like prettiness. Underneath the paint, Sansa’s face was pale and she held her hands clasped tight in her lap. There was a brittle quality to her, and if she had been a fighter on the Wall, Jon would have pulled her off duty for fear that she might be about to snap.

“Please don’t stand up,” Jon said hastily as Sansa moved to rise.

Tyrion snorted. “Wasn’t planning to. Privilege of the dying.” He looked back at Sansa. “Read it back so I know you have it right.”

Sansa stared at the doublet Jon was wearing, and then looked down at her hands. “Aegon sent you that one?” she asked.

“Is there something wrong with it?” Jon looked down at the black and gold doublet. 

“No.” Sansa said. She wrapped her arms around her waist. 

Tyrion snorted. “Foppish and silly. You look like a boy-whore, but you’ll fit right in at court.”

Well, Jon thought, that was one of the least encouraging things Tyrion could possibly have said. He wondered if Tyrion had gone out of his way to say it for exactly that reason.

Tyrion grinned as if reading Jon’s mind. “Princes are not useful. Men who will get me another glass of wine are useful. Which type are you?” He waved his hand. “And why am I not hearing the notes being read back to me?”

Sansa ignored Tyrion. “Jon, I would like you to know Lady Ermensande of House Hayford,” she said formally.

Jon had not even noticed the girl. She was a brownish, sullen-faced child who did not meet Jon’s eyes. “Your highness,” she said. She rose from where she had been sitting by a harp and gave him a brief, formal curtsey. When Jon bowed in response, she sat down again.

After looking around, Jon found a jug of wine and began to search for a clean cup. Tyrion glared at his wife. “Now, where were we? No, don’t look at Jon – he’s too busy doing important work to be offended.”

Sansa dutifully read back her notes, which appeared to involve cost estimates for improving the sewers of King’s Landing. Jon delivered Tyrion’s wine and received a grunt of acknowledgement. On closer examination, he saw that Tyrion’s face was lined with pain and his eyes were glassy. He looked at Sansa, and she met his eyes and gave her head a small shake. Quietly, he withdrew.

As Sansa read, Lady Ermensande began picking away at her harp again. A woman dressed in the neat garb of a superior servant came in, carrying a jewel box. She pulled the plain white ribbon from Sansa’s hair and replaced it with a series of sparking silver and diamond pins. Sansa continued to read, her eyes on her notes, while the woman worked. Jon watched for a time, noting how the serving woman entered the room unacknowledged and almost unnoticed, while a child had been formally presented to a Prince. In the Night’s Watch no man was considered less than another because he worked to support his brothers. 

Jon winced as Ermensande hit a false note, and drifted over. The instrument was beautiful – gold plating on the wood inlaid with a fret of green metal. “What are you playing?” He asked the child. 

She looked up at him, and he revised his estimate of her age upwards. She had old eyes and she looked at him as if he were about to strike her. Hesitantly she picked out a few bars, and Jon felt a shock of recognition. “But you can be my forest love, and me your forest lass,” he sang softly under his breath. 

He had heard that song sung by a Riverland knight come to guard the Wall, during one of Arya’s visits. She had listened to the song with a smile on her lips. Then she had asked how the ships were fairing. On being told the winds were blowing strong and true for the south, she had announced her departure and had ridden for Eastwatch that day, that very hour, to take ship. Now he knew where she had been going, and why there had been a light in her eyes.

“Could you play the entire song?” he asked. 

The girl nodded silently, and touched the strings. 

My featherbed is deep and soft, and there I’ll lay you down,  
I’ll dress you all in yellow silk, and on your head a crown.

As she sang, Jon thought of Daenerys. Since her death he had thought of her always as he had known her – in the fires of war. They had never been given the chance to journey to meet each other, to anticipate, to reunite and reminisce. Their time together had been desperate and urgent, their love-making conducted with all the passion of two young people who did not know if they would live to have another coupling. After they had lain together wrapped in furs against the cold, their filthy sweaty bodies twined together, and they had talked about the past that was rapidly fading from both their memories. Jon had told Daenerys of snowball fights at Winterfell and she had spoken of a house with a red door and a lemon tree. Then they would leave their bed and return to the battle.

For you shall be my lady love, and I shall be your lord.  
I’ll always keep you warm and safe, and guard you with my sword.

He had thought it was the end before she came. The defenders were too few, the walking dead who assailed them relentlessly were too many. They beat back the great waves, but up and down the Wall, they heard the scratching of the dead climbing day and night, and men who sat for a few minutes rest often found themselves assailed by lone attackers before they could rise. It was dark – even the days were only twilight – and all the fighters were exhausted, and there was no hope that more relief would get through from the south. And then she had come, the Queen bringing fire.

And how she smiled and how she laughed, the maiden of the tree.  
She spun away and said to him, no featherbed for me.

The day he had met her, he had been awake for thirty-six hours and fatigue was making the candle lights blur in front of his eyes. Daenerys had come alone, riding Drogon from Eastwatch where here ships were unloading her army. Jon had formed the idea, halfway through the introduction, when he was processing about one word in ten, that she had come from Skaagos. After hearing her out politely, he thanked “Lady Stormborn” for coming to fight with him, and inquired whether she had brought more than fifty fighting men as then they might be best set directly to Greenguard castle so as not to strain the resources of Eastwatch. She had stared at him in astonishment. Then he had heard for the first time the silvery laugh of Daenerys Targaryen. She had told him the extent of her great armies, had taken him by the hand and shown him a dragon for the first time, and he had known that they all had a chance of life.

I’ll wear a gown of golden leaves, and bind my hair with grass,  
But you can be my forest love, and me your forest lass.

They never found her body after she fell in the last battle. The flames had consumed her utterly. He thought of the grass that grew around Drogon’s bones. What would Daenerys have been like in peace-time, he wondered. He knew she had struggled to maintain the peace of Meereen, made compromise after compromise until it all collapsed about her. Would it have been different for her in Westeros, if she had lived? He wondered. Daenerys had worn the world like a skin she might shrug off at a moment’s notice; she had lived like a flaming comet that streaked across the sky and then vanished. 

The last notes of the song echoed and died. Lady Ermensande frowned at the wall, not looking at Jon. He rose and looked at the borrowed doublet in one of Tyrion’s doublessly pricesless mirrors, and adjusted the hang of it. It was seductively comfortable against his skin, and fit him near as well as if it had been made for him. 

“Aegon wore that to a feast at Harrenhal,” Ermensande said suddenly. “The last night of the tournament. He wore that, and I wore cloth-of-gold.”

“Ermensande!” Sansa’s voice cut across the room like a knife. She was on her feet. “Hold your tongue.”

“She wasn’t doing any harm,” Jon protested.

Sansa ignored him. She glared at Ermensande, who dropped her eyes to the floor. “The Prince has better things to do that listen to the natterings of a stupid little girl. Go to your room until you learn some discipline.” Jon opened his mouth, then shut it again as he received a look that would rival Catelyn Stark at her most fierce. Sansa pointed at the door. “Go.”

Ermensande gathered her harp. She hurried to the door in a rustle of skirts, then stopped at the door. “I will wait up for you to come back,” she said to Sansa all in a rush. “I will.” With that she turned and fled.

Jon flinched as the door slammed behind her. “What was that about?”

“If the Lady of House Hayford wants to live to inherit the seat of her ancestors,” Sansa said calmly, “then she needs to learn to control herself. As do others, Your Highness. Now, we have an engagement and we must not be late.”

“Sansa, why are we doing this? Surely the Queen has no more desire to dine with us than we with her.”

“No. But she must not allow any suggestion that she is being put aside. Dinning with the crown prince on the night of his arrival sends a powerful message to the court. So we dine together.” She looked tense and pale, and a frown crossed her brow. “This is a battlefield, as much as any you saw on the Wall. Unkind things may be said,” she added. 

“Will the food at least be good?” he asked. He had a feeling for what might be coming and he hoped to divert her.

“Everything will be Dornish. You won’t like it,” she said, and went on. “I want you to promise me that no matter what happens you will not get into any arguments.” Her eyes went to the dagger at his side, and she hastily added “or do anything physical.”

Sansa had clearly not thought through the loopholes available in that request. “I promise,” he said easily, and her eyes narrowed. But the song and his thoughts of Arya had reminded Jon of something, and he realized he had a diversion at hand. “Wait,” he said, and dug into the pouch at his waist. He produced a small package. “This is for you.”

Sansa took it with a frown. “What is it?” she asked, her face tired. Jon saw her glance at the pile of paper work Tyrion had given her.

“It is a present,” he explained patiently. He had been dubious about Jeyne Heddle’s idea of bringing a small gift – a token seemed inadequate to say ‘sorry’ for six months of abandonment – but the mistress of the Inn had put the question to everyone in the common room over breakfast, and the vote had been unanimous. As Sansa took the package and opened it, she did not smile, but there was a lightening about her eyes and he knew that they had been right.

She unwrapped the roll of velvet. Inside was a set of small scissors, a thimble, pins, and a row of needles arraigned by size and thickness. She pulled one out and looked at it – more sharp and light than iron, stronger than copper. Is this …”

“Steel,” Jon said. “Steel needles. I met a blacksmith who has been experimenting with the technique.” There was thread too, fine silk in dozens of colours. One of the patrons of the inn had been a travelling merchant, and had not been slow to take opportunity when he saw it. 

“This is beautiful,” she said. “Thank you.” She gave it to the serving woman. “Brella, would you take this upstairs for me?” 

“I look forward to a full report tomorrow,” Tyrion said, lifting his cup without opening his eyes. “It should be the most awkward and unpleasant dinner party the Red Keep has seen since Aegon the Unworthy last dinned with all his children. Enjoy!”


	18. An Uncomfortable Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay in posting. Updates will be a little less frequent from now on, due to real life commitments. To make up for it, this is the longest chapter yet.
> 
> Comments welcome, as always!
> 
> And an thousand thanks to WendyNerd and Oriberu for bets and edits. You guys are the best!

Jon scanned Arianne’s solar. _That window is big enough to jump through_ , he thought. _One escape route. Good. That door – does it lead to a bed chamber? There could be another window, or maybe a garderobe to climb down. Two escape routes, assuming that I can drag Sansa down a garderobe. That might be a problem. The door behind us is our best chance, if we have to fight our way out. I don’t like the look of those ‘servants’. Bet they do more than just pour wine. Not going to gamble my life on them not having a few concealed blades. Oh, fabric wall hangings. I could use those to ensnare pursuers, and those candles could set the entire mess ablaze._ It might be a dirty fight, but Jon felt good about his chances.

“Welcome,” Arianne said, gliding forward to greet them with Aegon at her side. 

Jon bowed to his brother and Aegon rolled his eyes and told him the formality was absurd and unnecessary, given that they had shared a sleeping chamber the night before. Jon thought the same, but he suspected Aegon was happier to reject offered respect than to not receive it in the first place. The women exchanged a brief, formal, kiss. 

“Your Graces are so kind to entertain us tonight,” Sansa said. 

“The pleasure is ours,” Arianne responded. Both of them had smiles fixed on their faces. Sansa’s face was pale and she looked nauseous, while Arianne had lines of tension in the corner of her eyes. 

"Did you get Tyrion to finish the work on the sewer project?” Aegon asked Sansa. She nodded.

“You are a treasure,” Arianne said.

“Indeed. We shall steal you from the North and keep you here in the capital forever,” Aegon proclaimed. He gave Jon a look out of the corner of his eye and smirked. Jon looked back at him. The moment Tyrion died he intended to pack Sansa onto a ship heading North, and if Aegon did not like it, he could piss up a rope.

“How is Tyrion?” asked Arianne, echoing Jon’s thoughts. 

“He fades away more every day,” Sansa responded. “The maesters have given him potions for pain and to help him sleep.”

Arianne put her hand on Sansa’s arm. “I hear you sit up with him every night. You must be exhausted.”

“Yes,” said Aegon. “Surely we could find someone to relieve you of that duty and leave your nights free.”

“No,” she said quickly. “No. No, I want to be with him.” She shook her head, and gave Jon a quick glance. “Our marriage may not have had the best beginning, but … he and I are all that is left of those days in King’s Landing. He would never say it, but I think it comforts him to have me there.”

Aegon’s eyes softened. “You are kinder to him than he deserves. Sansa, I’m sorry about tonight,” he said. He touched her sleeve. “Truly. Sometimes I get too caught up in petty politics and games. You do look pale. If you wish to be excused, no one will take offence.”

For all his ire with his brother, Jon felt a tinge of gratitude to the man. That tinge vanished when Aegon did not remove his hand from Sansa’s arm.

Sansa turned and gave him a small smile. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she said quietly. “But I am fine.”

“Tell me I am forgiven?”

“You are forgiven,” she told him.

The hand was still on her arm. Jon saw Arianne’s eyes dart to it, and then look away. He looked at Sansa, and she returned his look with a calm, seemingly unconcerned gaze. He wondered what Robb would do in this situation. Then he thought of what Stannis would do, and there was no doubt in his mind: Stannis would not put up with this. The Lord of Dragonstone had been a man who loathed both his brothers. Jon felt very close to him right now. He shifted his weight, just as Aegon finally removed the offending hand.

“I do look forward to seeing Sarella,” Arianne commented. 

Jon saw Aegon open his mouth to respond, then stopped. His brother stared at Arianne. “I thought only Tyene and Elia were in the capital.”

She looked at him defiantly. “They were. The others rode in while you were in the Vale.”

“How many of your cousins are coming tonight?” Aegon demanded.

“All of them.”

 _Shit,_ thought Jon, as a flash of fury crossed Aegon’s face. _If things go badly, the fight out of here may take a while. Hopefully I can consume a strengthening meal first._

When they arrived, Jon found that the Sand Snakes were so different that he would not have known them for sisters if not for the eyes. From eight faces, in eight different hues, the same viper eyes looked back at him, not a single gaze was friendly.

The eldest two of Oberyn’s daughters, Obara and Nymeria Sand, had grey thickly streaked through their hair. Obara still appeared fierce, Nym refined and beautiful, but both were well into their middle years. The next in age, sweet-face Tyene Sand was reputedly the most dangerous of the brood. She was the closest to the Queen, Sansa had told him. The most mysterious of the Sand women, the rarely-seen Sarella, called the Sphinx, had a look of amusement on her dark-skinned face, as if she knew a joke no-one else was privy to. 

There was a gap, both in age and demeanour, between the four eldest Sand Snakes and their younger sisters who shared a single mother, Oberyn’s famous paramour Ellaria Sand. Foremost, of course, was the girl who had once been called the young viper, but was increasingly just THE viper. Loreza Sand was the youngest of Oberyn’s brood, the most beautiful, the wildest, the most daring. She was barely sixteen and Jon had already heard a dozen or more stories about her. _Not all of it could possibly be true,_ thought Jon. But there was a part of him that loved it and wanted it to be true, the part of him that had loved the story of Daeron the Young Dragon when he had been a boy. 

Two of her older sisters flanked her: Dorea Sand was a bright eyed girl in her late teens with an angry set to her mouth, Obella had a softer face framed by ringlets of brown hair. Behind them was the last, Elia Sand, the eldest of Ellaria’s daughters, dark of hair, dark of eyes, and a dark expression to match.

“What a lovely dress, Lady Sansa,” Dorea remarked. “Did you have it made in the North, or can you recommend a seamstress here in King’s Landing?” 

“This dress was made in Gulltown,” Sansa said. “But I am having a dress made by Marsey Waters.”

“Oh, is her shop in the Street of Silk? You must know it so well,” said Dorea, her eyes wide and innocent. 

There was a moment of dead silence in the room, a collective moment where all the adults present looked at each other as if to ask ‘did she just say that?’ Even Jon had heard of the famous brothel street of King’s Landing, and he had spent the last decade on an ice wall three thousand leagues to the north. Dorea looked like a cat about to lick cream from its lips.

“No.” Sansa said calmly. “In King’s Landing, the Street of Silk is something else.”

Jon had promised not to react verbally or physically to provocation, but he had controlled one of the most diverse and unruly fighting forces in history. He gave Dorea a look. A long look. A calm look. Her face paled, and she stared at the floor.

“Should we all be seated?” Arianne suggested. 

There was a murmur of relief from almost everyone present, and a general movement toward the door to the dining room. Dorea stuck close to her sisters Nym and Obara. 

Jon let the others go ahead, keeping his eyes on the back of Dorea’s head. He felt a hand firmly placed on his chest, and looked to find a pair of dark eyes fixed on his. “She’s just a girl,” Elia Sand said to him. “You don’t know anything about her.”

“I know that she is old enough to be held responsible for her actions. And if your family won’t deal with her, I will.”

Elia glared at him, then flipped her hair over her shoulder and glided ahead of him. Jon stared. She was not exactly pretty, nor even the most striking of the Sand Snakes. But when she moved … she was a huntress, a carnivore, all smooth muscles and graceful bones, all energy poised to strike a target she had not yet found but was constantly on the search for. He swallowed.

The table was set with twelve places, each chair hung with fabric in house colours. The head of the table displayed the Targaryen red dragon on black, facing the Queen’s seat showing the Dornish red on gold sun and spear. Eight seats down the sides of the table displayed Martell gold with a red bar sinister. In the place of honour for a man, at the Queen’s right hand, was another red on black dragon, and to Aegon’s right was a Lannister golden lion on scarlet.

Elia moved beside Dorea and touched her arm. “Go sit between Obara and Obella,” she said, meeting Jon’s eyes in a naked challenge. Without breaking her gaze, she moved around the table to take the seat opposite Jon’s. _All right. _He suppressed a smile. _This could be interesting._ __

Nym took the chair beside the Lannister seat, and Tyene sat across from it. Loreza sat beside Nym, and Sarella positioned herself between her and Elia. That left Obara on Jon’s right, Obella beside Tyene with Dorea protected between them. Jon struggled to maintain his grim demeanour. In truth, the way the Sand Snakes worked together to protect each other was impressive, although it left him a little sad. “The pack survives,” he had heard Ned Stark say from time to time. But after the winter had passed, the Starks had forgotten that they were a pack. They had gone each their own way, living in their own separate worlds, for some of them, their own separate hells. He looked at Sansa, looking so alone at the other end of the table, a bright smile fixed on her face. _The pack survives, but sometimes the lone wolf dies._

He sat and looked up, to find Elia Sand staring at him. He gave her a polite smile, and stared right back. Her eyes were brown – streaks of dark and light brown alternated around pupils which looked huge in the dim light. She looked about of an age with Jon. Her nose had a high bridge, and her eyes were too close set for beauty. She was tanned from wind and sun, and although she was as young as Jon, she had fine wrinkles in the corner of her eyes. _Lines of laughter, frequent laughter,_ he thought, although there was no laughter in her now. Jon had intended simply to meet her challenge, but he found himself unable to look away.

The first course was soup. The bowls were placed in front of them, filled with a clear broth. Steam rose from it. Jon took a spoonful, put it in his mouth and swallowed. The flavours hit his tongue as the spice hit his throat and it was like his head exploded out his ears. It was also the best thing he had tasted in his entire life. He coughed and half-choked. 

“What is this?” he asked when he could draw breath.

Arianne smiled. “The soup is fish broth flavoured with lemongrass and cilantro leave. The noodles are blackened with squid ink.” Jon had not noticed the noodles underneath the green leaves. Arianne showed him how to twirl them around a fork with a spoon underneath. Jon consumed the rest of it with relish. _Why is this not being served at the Wall?_ Jon made a mental note to send a shipment up north as soon as possible.

At the other end of the table, Jon saw Sansa skillfully take a forkful of noodles. She held them on her fork as she spoke with Loreza. She raised the mouthful, then her face contorted with a look of revulsion. She quietly slid the noodles back into the bowl. Jon thought back to her careful instructions to him that he must eat at least one bite of every dish, no matter how spicy. Sansa was like her father in taste, he knew, preferring the simple foods and gentle tastes of the north. _This must be wretched for her, he thought._

He looked back to find Arianne watching him. “I wish we could have met under better circumstances,” Jon said quietly to Arianne. It seemed impossible not to acknowledge the situation, equally cruel to state it out loud.

“I never minded when he found company elsewhere,” Arianne replied at an equally low volume. She put her hand on Elia’s and gave her a small smile. “Ours was no love match. All I minded was that I was not free to take pleasure elsewhere while he was, but that was no fault of his. Aegon has always been difficult and inclined to brooding. When he came to my bed smelling of another woman – he was always easier to deal with after.” 

She looked at the other end of the table, as Sansa, Tyene, and Aegon conversed. “But the way he looks at her. I mind that.” 

“Sansa is not a person who would behave dishonourably.”

“I do not believe she encourages him, at least not intentionally, although I would not have said that honour was one of Lady Stark’s principle motivators. But in truth, Prince Jon, do you believe it makes a difference?”

Jon frowned, annoyed. It had been a long day, with far too much double-talk. “What I know is that my sister looks like hell.”

Arianne looked down the table. Her eyes narrowed and her hand tightened on her cup. 

“Yes,” she said. Staring fixedly at the other end of the table, she drained the rest of her wine. “More,” she said, holding it up for a servant.

Elia leaned forward and touched Jon’s wrist across the table. “Tell me, Your Highness, have you ever seen Essos?”

Jon switched his focus back to Elia, surprised by both her contact and the sudden interest. “No. I joined the Night’s Watch when I was fourteen. Before now, I had never been much south of Winterfell.”

“A pity,” she said. The servants placed the next dish in front of them – sizzling hot skewers of spicy marinaded lamprey, small round onions, and chunks of fiery red peppers. Elia took a bite of lamb, showing white teeth, and closed her eyes briefly in pleasure. Jon felt himself breaking out into a sweat that had nothing to do with the spicy food, and he was glad that his lap was under the table. Elia opened her eyes and her lips quirked into something that was not quite a sly smile as she took in his expression. “I returned from there just a few moons ago. I heard tell that the Dothraki are the greatest riders in the world and I wanted to find out for myself.”

“And were they?”

“I learned a few things I had not known before.” 

“Yes,” said Obella. “But what about their horsemanship?”

Elia made a face, and Jon had the impression that if they were a few years younger and in different company, she might have thrown something at her sister. He suddenly thought of Winterfell, of Ayra and Sansa fighting, of Bran and Rickon, and strangely and poignantly, of Theon Greyjoy. 

He took a mouthful of crunchy onion and biting green pepper; the tastes were utterly foreign to the North and entirely marvellous. _If I am going to be stabbed in the back by one of those silent so-called servants, at least I will have had a good meal._ In the fight for the Wall, Jon had learned not to turn down any opportunity to eat, even in the thickest of combat. He polished off the rest of the dish with relish, and hid the skewer up his sleeve as a potential weapon.

At the other end of the table, Jon caught the name Doran Martell. Nym was speaking of her uncle’s funeral, just last year. 

“He was the last of that generation,” she was saying. “Strange to think that he was the oldest of his siblings, and the sickest, but that he survived the longest.”

“Who would be the eldest of the Lords Paramount?” Obella wondered. Jon recalled that she had a reputation for being a scholar of history – it was said that Obella Sand never forgot a fact once she had learned it. “Edmure Tully, I suppose, and then Willas Tyrell. After that it would be Trystane or Theon Greyjoy.”

Sansa had been staring at her plate, making no move to touch the food, but at that she looked up sharply. Jon was startled to see the flare of fire in her eyes. “My husband Tyrion Lannister, the Lord of Casterly Rock, is not dead yet,” she snapped, and the table went silent. 

“I meant no disrespect to the man you call husband,” Obella said coolly. “But it is common knowledge that Lord Lannister has not long to live.”

“So people thought once about Robert Arryn,” Sansa remarked. She ran her fingers over the pin she wore on her breast. 

“It has been rather a question these last years,” Loreza said, a glitter of amusement in her eyes. “Which of the great houses would be extinguished first. The Baratheons and the Arryns are reduced to a single legitimate heir. After Tyrion, the Lannisters will consist only of Martyn and Janei. Edmure and his two children are the last Tullys. And then, of course, there was a time that the Starks were believed to be eliminated entirely. In error, of course. Happily. And the true-born Martell line rests only on Arianne and Trystane.”

Sansa shrugged as if nothing could matter less, and it was like the light and life had run back out of her again. The untouched plate in front of her was silently removed. 

There was an irony, Jon thought, about sitting at a table dominated by women of Martell descent while they reflected on the possible demise of the Martell line. Any one of the Sand Snakes had abilities and a disposition that would make them magnificent leaders. _What a loss for Westeros._ He had known trueborn lords who were no more than fools. Jon had made his share of mistakes as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. He internally flinched at the thought of some of the things his sixteen-year-old self had done. But at least his brothers had chosen him as their leader from a field that included every man in the Night’s Watch. 

The main course was quail; one for each of them. The birds had been plucked and roasted, then redressed in feathers of brilliant colours with glass eyes that made them look alive. Each was dressed in different colours – iridescent blues and brilliant greens, bright reds and flaming oranges. The birds were sitting in nests that had been built of finely sliced carrots and parsnips. Dumplings had been contrived to look like eggs and placed underneath them. There were gasps and murmurs down the table as the birds were set before them. Even by the standards of southern nobility, this must be a magnificent sight. As Jon slid his knife into the bird’s breast and peeled back the feathers he saw that they had been stitched onto muslin to cover the meat below.

Arianne raised her hand for her cup of wine to be refilled. As the servant moved to obey, Jon caught the man’s eyes. He had been a steward, at the beginning of his time in the Night’s Watch, and he knew the look of discomfort in the eyes of a servitor asked to fulfil a task he disagreed with. Arianne’s cup was emptied almost as soon as it was filled.

At the other end of the table, Sansa was conversing with Loreza. His kinswoman looked as strained as the Queen, but she was keeping up the appearance of peace. The youngest Sand Snake was gesturing with one hand as she ate with the other. Her full lips, painted a brilliant red, were curved into a smile. Jon was grateful that it was Loreza next to Sansa – from his observations of the girl, it appeared that she might support her kin, but at heart she did not care about the source of the tension at the table. She was vividly alive and as beautiful as her reputation said. She reminded Jon of Daenerys.

And then he looked at Sansa sitting next to Loreza, and the sudden thought came to him: _she is more beautiful than Loreza, the great beauty of the Sand Snakes. Sansa is exquisite -- as beautiful as any woman I have ever seen, even Dany. Why did I compare them, and think she was not beautiful?_ He had always laughed at descriptions of her, and thought that it was simply the natural reaction of a man raised as her brother. But now he wondered. _She holds herself so still, as if hoping that no-one will see her, but she has painted and adorned herself, tied herself down, made herself into an image of perfection. And her eyes are so afraid._ As he had thought on the Wall, all those months ago, he thought again: _How could any man think Sansa Stark is truly beautiful, if he had glimpsed Daenerys the Mother of Dragons bloody and glorious on the battlefield?_ In their too-brief time together, Dany had spoken little of her first marriage, but Jon wondered what he would have thought of her, if he had seen her dressed up and sold to Khal Drogo, thirteen years old.

The little bird in its feathers was still looking up at him with glass eyes. He looked at it sadly. _A pretty, plump little bird, raised from the moment of birth to be served up and devoured._ He pushed the muslin covering back over the gash in its breast, so that at least it could keep the appearance of perfection, before the servants silently took it away.

At the other end of the table, Aegon leaned closer to Sansa to murmur something in her ear. She nodded in acknowledgement, but looked uncomfortable. Jon wondered what he had said, and why he would do something so provocative at this table. Aegon caught Jon’s eye.

“I was just saying how well that doublet suits you, brother. You must keep it, as a gift. It is time you became accustomed to life as a Targaryen prince, and all it entitles you to.”

“You are generous,” Jon responded. “I know I have a great deal to become accustomed to here at court, particularly with my responsibilities on the Small Council.” Aegon lowered his eyes and Jon suppressed a smile. His brother had clearly hoped that Jon would forget that the council seat Sansa had been occupying until recently belonged to Jon. Council members served at the King’s pleasure, but Jon knew Aegon would not like the optics of dismissing his brother as soon as he arrived to claim the seat. 

“I will have to arrange for you to be briefed.”

Dessert was a delicate custard topped with slices of candied fruit – each bowl finished with blood orange, pomegranate, or strawberries. As Jon took a spoonful, he found resistance. “This is frozen,” he said in surprise. “I am sure that the Night’s Watch is grateful for your ice purchase.” 

It had been his suggestion to Lord Commander Mormont. The cost of the loans he had taken from the Iron Bank of Braavos to feed them through the winter had nearly ruined the Watch, but the peace of the last few years combined with the increased manpower of the sojourners had allowed them to explore new routes of paying off their debts. (Jorah’s suggestion to the Bank after the war that the debts should be forgiven because the Watch had saved all of humanity had fallen on deaf ears.) The Watch had a few ships left, and those had been employed ferrying furs hunted in forays beyond the Wall, gems from wilding mines, and lately, shipments of ice to Braavos and other cities.

Elia and Sarella looked at the Queen, clearly expecting her to respond with some pleasantry. Arianne simply stared into her cup, then took another swallow. The two Sand Snakes exchanged looks, then Sarella started on some involved, very funny, and likely widely exaggerated story from their childhoods in the Water Gardens.

“Lady Sansa, you are not eating,” Tyene said, her sweet face creased in concern.

“No, I am afraid spices do not agree with me, and I have never been partial to pomegranate as a fruit,” Sansa said, gesturing to the iced custard in front of her.

“You must take mine,” Tyene said, sliding her own bowl of custard topped with blood orange towards Sansa with a smile. 

Jon felt his heart leap into his mouth as he watched the dish being proffered to Sansa by the realm’s most deadly poisoner. Sansa looked at Jon, her blue eyes wide with sudden fright. _She wouldn’t. Not in front of everyone. She’s just trying to send a message._ But before either of them could move or speak, Aegon slammed his hand down on Tyene’s arm. “She doesn’t want it,” he said. The jovial expression had vanished from his face.

Tyene met his eyes and smiled sweetly. “Of course, cousin. I was only trying to help.”

Aegon looked from her to Arianne, then back to Tyene. His eyes flashed with a silent warning. He released Tyene’s arm, and settled back into his chair, watching them all. 

A sweet wine was poured to accompany the custard. Aegon raised his cup. “I propose a toast,” he said, his lips curved into a smile. “To my Queen, for arranging this beautiful meal and bringing us all together tonight in the spirit of harmony.” 

Arianne raised her head and stared at him. She turned the cup in her hand, her face blank. “Of course, a toast. How appropriate,” she said. Then in one smooth motion she raised her arm and hurled the cup at Aegon’s head. 

Aegon ducked, and the cup caught him a glancing blow on the temple. He stared at his wife. Jon thought it was the first time he had seen his brother at a loss for words. “I am not as stupid as you think I am,” Arianne yelled. 

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Obara’s hand came down firmly on the table. “This meal is over,” Oberyn’s eldest announced as Aegon and Arianne stared at each other across the table, both of them breathing hard. 

“Your Highness, Lady Sansa,” Nym said smoothly. “We are so sorry. I am afraid that my cousins have a somewhat volatile marriage. If you might excuse us to deal with family matters.”

Jon nearly vaulted over the table in his rush to get Sansa out of her seat and to the door. She looked mortified, and gasped out her regrets and apologies as he pulled her away from Aegon and out the door. He ignored her, and did not slow until they were several corridors safely away from the Queen’s chambers. Then he let her slow, mentally congratulating himself on a successful tactical retreat under extreme threat. He hadn’t even had to kill anyone. 

“Seven h…” Sansa visibly swallowed the word. It was the closest he had ever come to hearing her swear. “What did you think you were doing?”

“Getting both of us out of there alive,” Jon said. “Any more meals like that, and I am going to start bringing my dragon.”

She stared at him as if she had never seen him before. “Is this a joke to you? Do you think that just because you are a dragonrider, nothing can happen to you?” She stepped back, and her voice was bitter. “Aegon said once that the Starks were arrogant. He was right.”

Jon snorted. “Aegon …”

“He protected me tonight. He was willing, and able, to protect me. For all his faults, don’t make light of that.”

“You don’t think that Tyene was serious, do you?” Jon was surprised. 

She just shook her head and wrapped her arms around herself. “I want to go back to Tyrion,” she said in a small voice. 

Jon put his arm around her shoulder as they walked. He had intended to offer comfort, but she only seemed to shrink under his touch, and he could feel her shiver. “Things will seem better in the morning,” he told her. “This is not the worst night any of us have seen. At least this night will have a dawn.” 

He meant that literally, thinking of the long night that had spanned moons in the depths of the Winter, but Sansa shook her head. “Perhaps,” she said, as if she did not truly believe it. 

“Lady Sansa?” The maid, Brella, was standing by the foot of the stairs to the Hand’s tower. “While you were at dinner, Lord Tyrion took a bad turn. He cannot stand and the pain is much worse. The Grandmaester is with him.”

Sansa bowed her head for a moment, and Jon thought she might weep. “I will come.”

He caught her sleeve. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Jon, my problems will be made much easier the day you realize that there is nothing you can do to help me. Your presence here only makes things a thousand times more difficult.” She vanished up the stairs in a rustle of silken skirts.

Jon stood looking after her for a time, listening to the silence of the Red Keep and the wind moving through the corridors. Finally, he turned to find his way back to his own quarters. He was bone tired after a day that had begun at the Inn of the Crossings and ended with verbal sparring across a courtly dinner table.

He stopped as a shape moved in the darkness. Even without the face being visible, the lean muscles and effortless grace identified the stranger. His fatigue vanished, and for all his worries he had to smile in surprise. 

“I know you’re there,” he said. “That was … interesting. Your family is nearly as complicated as mine.”

“We have one family member in common,” Elia said, stepping into a shaft of light, and holding her hands up to show that they were empty. “You don’t trust him. You are less of a fool than I was.”

“I gather that the two of you have a history.”

“There was a time I thought I was in love with him. We were little more than children when we met. We were together through the Winter. He was my best friend, the only person who understood me. I was the only person who understood him.”

“What happened?”

“It was a long time ago, and if I told you, you would not believe me.” Elia laughed, but here was no humour in her voice. “In the spring, our affair was ended, by me. He accepted my decision and we remained on cordial terms after. He never mistreated me, was always courteous to my lovers, and at the time when I left for Essos, he seemed a good and caring husband to my cousin.”

Jon looked at her, at her dark eyes and the flicker of expressions that crossed her face. “It is a pity that we are on opposite sides,” he said.

“Do you mean between Martells and Starks? The Martells will join forces against outsiders, that is true. But I am a Sand. Sands shift. They go their own way, when they choose. Perhaps they seem like just …” she raised her hand, and gestured like something blowing in the wind, “grains of nothing. But men have died on the sands of Dorne when they entered unwary. Even dragons.”

“Snow is not so different,” said Jon. He found he had moved closer to her without being aware of it. “I was raised a bastard.”

Elia put a hand on his chest. “I like bastards,” she said. “But you chose to be something else the day you accepted legitimization. I think one prince is enough for a lifetime, Your Highness.” She flipped her hair back over her shoulder and turned with effortless grace, then vanished back into the shadows.

_What did she want?_ Jon wondered, and listed it among all the unanswered questions that plagued him. He sighed, and sought his bed. The endless battles at the Wall had taught him that, too: to take rest when he could because he might never know when the next attack might come.

*** 

_He was curled up in a hollow beside the road, his tail against his nose, the dry grass of the north warm under his paws. Overhead, the moon shone down through the still night air. There were travellers nearby, making their way to the great cities of the south. He was following the same path, hunting wild beasts and sometimes the animals of the travellers, hiding from the men who might fear and hunt him in return. His fur was warm, his body was strong, and he could run for days on end if necessary. He could hear the minds of his pack – the wolf of the great stone castle nearby, the one far in the north beyond the ice barrier that had been his home for so long, his sister in the south who ranged through the thick forests never too close or too far from the stone building where many paths met. He would travel close to the bones of his brother, resting in the mud by the river crossing. The lost wolf lay ahead, and her absence was like a sore he wanted to gnaw at. But for now all he could do was rest to run and hunt again._

_He was dozing under the same moon as thin clouds raced across the sky as flames flickered in the warm wind, meat in his belly and gravel sliding beneath his scales. His wings were stiff from long hours in the air with a weight on his back. His brother’s tail moved too close to him, and he snapped at it without fully awakening, giving a warning rumble that echoed off the stone walls. His brother snarled back, then was silent again._

_He shifted, sweat coating his skin. The sheets were silk on top of a feather bed, and no moonlight penetrated the heavy bed curtains surrounding him. He tossed under the unfamiliar weight of the covers and slid a hand under his pillow to feel the steel of his dagger. Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside – some denizen of the Keep on an unknown errand._

There was a murmur of voices, and at first he was unsure of which of the three pairs of ears heard them. “Dead,” a man said. “She was found dead without a mark on her.” Jon found himself coming to awareness. 

“It was impossible,” said another voice. “She went to bed healthy and well. The door to her chamber was locked.”

The voices murmured at the edge of Jon’s hearing. He opened his eyes and saw fire pits and his brother’s scales. He was in Viserion. Dragon keepers stood nearby, talking in hushed voices. A single word kept reaching his ears. Dead. Dead. Dead. Jon awoke, entering fully into Viserion’s mind as he listened for the name.

Tyene Sand.


	19. The Chicken Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to WendyNerd for beta-reading!

The day broke bright and fresh with a sky so blue that the colour almost hurt Jon’s eyes. In the light of day, the whispers he had heard in the night seemed like a fevered dream, but they echoed through his mind. Tyene Sand, found dead without a mark on her. He was not sure of what he had heard: his bond with Viserion had never been as strong as with Ghost. If it was true, he did not know what this could mean or what might come of it, and he dared not reveal the source of his information by asking questions. He could only continue as if nothing had happened and wait. 

He swung his legs out of the bed, and discovered that a pair of soft, fur-lined indoor shoes had been laid on top of the thick wool carpet. They must have been placed there last night while he was at dinner – Jon slept lightly, and his door had been guarded by a man on loan from the Lannister household. Bemused, he slid his feet into them and discovered they were a perfect fit. 

After a knock on his door, the source of the shoes presented himself. The man was old – he appeared to be well over seventy – but he had a strong build and the look of a man who had seen combat. He surveyed Jon and the quarters like a lord surveying the scene of a battle, then gave Jon a graceful, perfect bow. “Your Highness, my name is Lucion. I am in service to Lord and Lady Lannister, who have asked me to assist you with the establishment of your household until such time as you can make your own arrangements or depart court.”

Jon nodded acknowledgement. He had no intention of being here long enough to hire his own servants, so the arrangement made sense. 

“I have taken the liberty of making some arrangements on your behalf,” continued Lucion. “Lady Sansa suggested that you would require entirely new clothes. She suggested, and I agree, that you should give your patronage to as many different seamstresses and tailors as possible. You will cultivate goodwill among the merchant folk by doing so, to the benefit of your reputation. They will, of course, attend the Prince at the Red Keep at which ever time is most convenient to you. I can make all the arrangements. The Lady Sansa recommends Marsey Waters, a highly skilled needlewoman whom your father also favoured for fine court wear.” 

“You were at court when my father was Hand?” Jon asked, surprised.

The man coughed, and looked uncomfortable. “I did not have the honour of encountering Lord Stark. Prince Jon, I was referring to your father Prince Rhaegar. I served at court for many years during the reign of King Aerys.”

To Jon’s astonishment, he learned that Sansa had arranged for him to be attended by the life-long personal manservant of Tywin Lannister. The man doubtless knew court as few others could – Lucion had come to the Red Keep with Tywin when he had been made Hand of the King over forty years ago. From what Jon knew of the late Lannister Lord, Tywin tolerated no incompetence in his close associates, and Lucion’s arrangements thus far spoke to efficiency and utter competence. 

_But how am I to live day by day with a man who likely delivered the letters which ordered the Red Wedding?_ After Lucion excused himself to perform errands, Jon stared at the door. _Is he reporting to Martyn Lannister? To someone else? Why would Sansa send such a man to attend me in my quarters, in my very bedchamber?_

As he stood in the bright sunlight, in a room filled with every luxury, it was as if she spoke the warning into his ears. _You are never safe here. Even in your bed. Even in your sleep. Trust no one. Beware._

 _And can I trust you, Sansa?_ Jon wondered.

***

“What the fuck do you want?” Robter Storm barked out the question without looking up from his papers. Jon stood in the doorway, his hand still raised to knock on the open door to announce his presence. Robter sighed, looked up and took in the identity of visitor. “Didn’t anyone tell you that fucking princes aren’t supposed to wander around knocking on people’s doors? You’re gonna make someone shit themselves sneaking around like that. So, like I said, what the fuck do you want?”

“May I come in?”

“So long as you don’t waste my time, sure.” Robter waved his hand at the piles in front of him. “I have work to do.” He waited until Jon took the seat opposite his desk. “I hear you are taking your seat on the council. Do you know anything useful?”

“A few things. But I don’t know court,” Jon said. He paused, and gave Robter a half-smile. “Maybe you might be willing to help me while I find my way around.”

Robter did a double-take, and he put the papers down. He gave Jon a suspicious look. “I don’t know what you think you are asking, and I’m grateful as anyone that I’m not walking around with blue eyes and my guts hanging out on the ground, but if you think I am going to help you navigate this snake-pit out of the goodness of my heart, you are one crazy bastard.”

“I’m not the one asking.”

“Then who is?” Robter asked.

Jon smiled, and played his card. “Loras Tyrell, in the name of Renly Baratheon.”

Robter stared. “Shit,” he said, in the end, and Jon knew Loras had been right.

Jon’s lunch with Loras had produced few surprises, other than Loras’ sister Margaery’s attempt to invite herself along. Loras himself had been dour and brusk, and he told Jon that he was planning to depart shortly for another tour of duty at the Wall. Loras confided that he was thinking of taking the Black permanently. As Varys had said, Loras had no interest in politics, did not socialize, and had cultivated no connections outside his family. But Jon had come to know Loras well during the war and in the years since, and he knew what most people had forgotten about the disfigured young knight: he had been the lover of one of the most beloved lords Westeros had ever known. Even after years of war and turmoil, the name of Renly Baratheon had not been forgotten. 

Renly and Robter had been born less than a month apart at Storm’s End, the great fastness of the Stormlands. The siege of the castle by the Tyrells and the Redwynes had run for more than a year during Robert’s Rebellion, and the inhabitants had battled starvation. Robter and Renly had been the only children left inside with the fighting men, and they had slept in a single chamber and shared their meagre food. After the Rebellion, Robter had stayed by the side of Renly, who had been named the young lord of Storm’s End. He had been not just Renly’s accountant, but his right hand in the Stormlands, and closer to him than a brother.

_“He’s the smartest man I’ve ever met,” Loras had said. “And you can trust him … if he agrees to help.” ___

“Why me?” Robter asked, his eyes narrowing. “Davos is a good man, even if he did follow that bastard Stannis. Without Davos and his ship full of onions, we would have been done in the siege. Garlan … with the exception of Loras, I wouldn’t give a son of Mace Tyrell the sweat off my balls if he were dying of thirst in the middle of the Dornish desert, but Garlan’s better than some of those flowers. Either of them might help you make a little less of an ass of yourself all the time.”

Jon let the slight slide. Loras had warned him about this too: _“Unfortunately, he’s an asshole. Good luck.”_

“Davos and Garlan are the two leading candidates to replace Tyrion as Hand of the King. Everyone in court is watching them. I need someone …”

Robter snorted. “You need a bastard. Someone nobody cares about. Someone who’s just on the council to clean up messes – someone who will get replaced as soon as a better candidate comes along.” He shrugged. “Oh, I got no hard feelings against the King for that – he laid that on the line for me before I ever took this position. But …” 

“Loras said you were the man to go to.”

Robter’s eyes were distant. “Loras and Renly loved each other. Kinda skeeved me out when it first happened, to be honest. But, I’ve known plenty of women and men who ground ugly bits – didn’t have a tenth of what Loras and Renly had. Pair of twits, they could be. Not a clue about the world. That was all right. Renly had enough of us who could get stuff done, he didn’t need to be a genius. He cared about people.” 

Robter looked at Jon. “People say the same thing about you: you aren’t the brightest guy around, but you have a good heart and you know how to make good friends.” There was a moment of silence between them, while Jon waited. Finally, Robter sighed. “Yeah, I’ll help if I can. What do you need?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“That’s a bad start. Fine, I can do some heavy lifting to figure out what you need. Common knowledge – you came running down here like a chicken with its head cut off after your sister got in a bit too deep in politics. Common knowledge again, your brother has a childless Queen and a hard on for your sister that you could throw oilcloth over and use as a tent. So you want to get her out without causing a stink, and you’re trying to figure out what caused all the ruckus in the first place. Pretty obvious, based on common knowledge.”

Jon winced at the oilcloth bit, but had to admit the accuracy of the rest of it. “What about less common knowledge?

“Well, your pure little Ice-Maiden is as crooked as a horsetrader. Don’t shit me, I was the one who tracked down that stuff with the Frey’s bridge. I don’t care; fuck the Freys. But now they’ve found out why their bridge kept collapsing, and they’re pissed as hell. Bad job on Varys’ part if his side of the investigation gave her up – he’s supposed to be better than that.” Robter shifted to gesture at the rows of thick account books lining the walls of his office. “But it goes back further than that. Does the name Petyr Baelish mean anything to you?” 

Jon shook his head, then stopped. “He was Lysa Arren’s husband. He died in the war.”

“Before that he had my job as Master of Coin. His books – you can tell a lot about a man if you read his books, and you are good at accounting. Me: I’m the best. I’ve seen a lot of crap in my years. But you look at that man’s work and … seven hells, he was a black-hearted son of a bitch. So he leaves court and goes back to the Vale, and become Lord Protector when his wife dies. Couple of years later he dies. His keep in the Fingers goes back to the Arryns, and he leaves all his books and personal ledgers to one Lady Sansa Stark.” 

“Why?” 

“Who knows? She was living in the Eyrie at the time, with her cousin. Maybe Baelish was sweet on her.” 

“He doesn’t sound like the sort of man who is sweet on anyone,” Jon said. He frowned, not sure what to make of this new information, but not liking any of the implications. It dovetailed all too well with what he had been told at the Eyrie. What have you been doing this last years, Sansa? “Do you know anything about what happened at Harrenhal?”

“Just that she went sneaking out. Not a clue, beyond that.” Robter shrugged, and added, “Not the smartest plan, going to Riverrun. If I was her brother, and wasn’t a moron, I might be wondering about that. Just suggesting, in case you are a moron.”

“What would you do? If you were her, trying to get back to the North?”

“Me? I’d keep my guard up and come straight back to King’s Landing with the court. Then I’d talk to good old Davos about finding a smuggler’s ship. Get on a boat at night, in some isolated cove, and sneak out of Blackwater Bay. Then on the open ocean, over long distances, nothing moves faster than a ship. Easy sail to White Harbour.”

Jon blinked. He had not given much thought to travel by water. He had not even seen the ocean until after the winter, when he had Eastwatch, the main port of the Night’s Watch. At that point he had been accustomed to travel by dragon. To think of it, Jon realized, he had never actually set foot on a ship. Of course, he knew that ships could move day and night – if a dragon might be faster over short distances, it had to stop and rest and a ship could quickly outpace it. 

“Do you have a map of Westeros?”

After a brief search, Robert pulled a roll of parchment from a basket and spread it in front of Jon. He looked at Harrenhal, on the shores of the Gods Eye. It would be an easy trip across the lake, and then down the river to King’s Landing. Or one could go north, to the port at Saltpans. But … he traced his finger from Harrenhal, then west to a point north of High Heart. As he continued, the line crossed Riverrun. And then he continued west, and suddenly the map wavered in front of him. 

He had almost seen it in the Inn of the Crossings, when he had thought of that conversation with Jeyne Poole. She had told him – in real trouble, Sansa would have gone to family. Ships, and family, and someplace no-one would expect her to go, someone no-one would think of because the world had written him off long ago. And the thing was that none of them had seen it, not Rickon or Bran, or Robert Arryn, or Jon himself, or even Jeyne Poole. 

“She wasn’t going to Riverrun,” he said. “She was going to Pyke. She was going to Theon Greyjoy.”

Robter blinked, and Jon could see the wheels turning behind his eyes. “Hell of a risk,” was all he said. “Lady high and mighty doesn’t strike me as the type to enjoy life as a salt wife.”

Jon remembered the last time he had seen Theon Greyjoy. It had been after the last battle at the Wall, when he and Asha had been returning home to confront their uncle Euron. Jon had thought he would loath the Turncloak, the man he had long believed to be responsible for the deaths of Bran and Rickon, the man who had killed Maester Luwin. But after hearing Jeyne Poole beg for Theon’s life, after witnessing his ruined body and mind, Jon had found no room for anger in his heart. Theon had sailed home, and if Jon had thought of him it had been only with pity. Now, suddenly, he remembered Theon as he had been in his youth and strength: his love for Robb, his ready laugh, his skill with the bow, his longing to be one of the Starks. And, in a moment of desperation, in an act of trust, a Stark had tried to flee to his protection.

Jon touched his cheek, and his fingers came away wet. “Can you give me a moment?” 

“Sure. I’ll just sit here and draw up a list of all the people I am going to have to tell about the great hero of the Wall getting weepy over a long-lost foster brother. It’ll take a while.” 

By all the gods, thought Jon, as he looked at his new ally. _What an asshole._

****

Late in the afternoon, Jon found the time to spend a quiet hour with his dragon. He was pleased to discover that Rhaegal was nowhere in sight. Aegon must have taken him out for a flight. There was still no word from his brother, no signs of disturbance in the Keep, and he was nearly sure that the overheard whispers had been no more than a dream. Jon lay back, resting his head against Viserion’s side and basking in the beast’s warmth.

The meeting with Loras had disquieted him as much as anything that had happened since he had arrived at court. Jon had tried to suggest to the Tyrell knight that he travel in Essos rather than go to the Wall. The North, he had said, was no place to rebuid one’s life. Loras had heard him out, fingering the burns that crossed his face and neck. Finally, he had spoken. “I don’t want to rebuild my life,” Loras had said simply. “There is nothing to rebuild. I just want to live with men who understand that.”

 _Was I like that?_ Jon wondered. He and Loras had spoken many times at the Wall, and he had never thought that the man was unusual. Amongst that mostly-veteran guard, he wasn’t. But Jon had never seen how truly unhealthy his mind had been until they met here, amongst the life and colour of the south. _I could have been Loras,_ he thought with a chill. He thought of Loras’ pretty sister Margaery, who had pouted when turned away from the lunch, and wondered what she thought of the idea of losing her brother to the lonely guard in the North.

Viserion rumbled happily as a figure appeared on the parapet above the impromptu dragonpit. Long red hair and ice-blue silks blew in the breeze. Jon smiled at his dragon. “Yes, Sansa,” he said. 

Viserion loved Sansa. He loved women in general (Jon suspected because of Daenerys), but Sansa was his favourite. She had a gift with all beasts that bordered on the uncanny. No matter how indifferent her riding skills, no horse ever threw Sansa. When hawking, she never lost a bird or came back without something for the pot. Dogs followed at her heels. It was one of the reasons Jon had always believed she had more than a touch of the warging gift, even if she had never manifested it in the same way her siblings had. And she never showed the least bit of fear of Viserion.

The dragon sent a hopeful image to Jon, and he laughed. “I don’t think Sansa has any chickens with her.” 

But he was proven wrong. Sansa vanished for a moment, then returned lugging a basket. She was clearly intending to play the ‘chicken game’. She reached in and produced the carcass of a bird, feathers still on. Viserion went rigid. Sansa held up the chicken and waited. The dragon sat down, wings folded, his breath huffing. She let him sit for a moment, then hurled the chicken into the air and ducked down.

Viserion sprang into the air with his back legs, spitting flame as he jumped. His teeth snapped around the chicken. He settled back down and watched expectantly. After a moment, Sansa popped back up, and another chicken was airborne. Her peal of laughter rang off the stones. Jon grinned, and started up the stone steps to the parapet, hoping that Sansa had brought enough chickens for him to toss a few. 

He was half-way up when he heard a strangled scream, and the sound of leathery wings. Jon took the remainder of the stairs two at a time. What he found at the top made his blood turn cold.

Rhaegal must have been sunning himself on the rocks on the other side of the wall, before he was drawn by the sounds Viserion and Sansa’s chicken game. Now he was perched on the wall on the far side of the parapet. Sansa stood frozen in front of him, the basket of chickens at her feet. Rhaegal extended his neck towards her, and let out a long, low rumble. His muzzle grazed her shoulder and he bared his teeth.

“Sansa, back away,” Jon called. “Come towards me.” 

He didn’t dare move towards her. _Does me being here help or hurt? A warg’s wolf sometimes attacks the beasts of other skinchangers. How do dragons respond to Targaryens who are not their riders?_ There was a thud behind him, as Viserion landed heavily on stone wall opposite Rhaegal. The two dragons growled at each other, and Jon cursed under his breath. 

Sansa had not moved, her gaze fixed on Rheagal. “It’s all right, Jon,” she called out. She extended her hand toward Rhaegal. The green dragon pulled back, then pushed his head at her again. Slowly, Sansa raised her hand and touched his nose. Viserion gave a warning growl, and Sansa reached her free hand back towards him. 

“Shhh,” she said, still watching Rhaegal.

Jon barely dared to breathe. He had heard of the burning of Quentyn Martell, of the deaths in Meereen when Rhaegal and Viserion had escaped from the Great Pyramid. With vigilance from the dragonriders, and the binding effects of the spells Tyrion had devised there had never been a repeat of those terrible deaths by fire. Was Rhaegal curious? Or was he about to strike?

The green dragon jumped down from the wall to land on the stone walkway next to Sansa. Viserion moved in at the same time, the two dragons circling each other around Sansa. She remained still, her face as pale as milk, not reacting to the slide of scales and wings around her, the scrape of claw on stone, the flash of teeth. 

Viserion pulled back at a gentle suggestion from Jon. He called out, careful not to startle Rhaegal. “Sansa, throw the chickens into the pit.” 

She nodded. Moving slowly, she bent, picked up the basket, and flipped the entire contents out into the courtyard. In a flash, both dragons were over the edge after the falling birds. Fire flashed, and there was the sound of snapping teeth and the impact of a scaled body against stone. 

Sansa walked towards Jon, composed, her face blank. It was only as she got closer that he realized she was trembling like a leaf. Silently, he took her by the arm. 

“They will only be thinking about the chickens now,” he said soothingly. He kept talking, trying more to calm her (and himself) with the flow of words than to persuade her of anything. “They are very immediate creatures. I’ll have the dragon keepers feed them soon. Then they will sleep.” He led her through an archway, into the shelter of stone walls and ceiling. She did not say a word until they were well inside, in a corridor so narrow that even Rhaegal, the smaller of the two, could never hope to enter. Then he let her sit down on a bench. “They are animals, Sansa. Just like any other.”

“Not like any other. They breathe fire,” she said. “I … I was never afraid of Viserion.” She gave a shaky laugh. “But when did I ever know what I should fear? I’m just a stupid girl, just like I’ve always been, a stupid little girl who never knows how to do anything right. I should have known better. I should have known.”

Jon looked at her in dismay, feeling more helpless than ever. “You know Viserion. He loves you.” He reached out to take her hands in his, to offer her comfort, but she pulled her fingers sharply from his grip and wrapped her arms around herself.

“Don’t,” she said.

“I’ve made mistakes with Viserion,” Jon said. “A few months ago I nearly died from one of them.”

She just shook her head, and her face was frozen, her blue eyes wide with fear. 

_Now. I’ll suggest we go back to Winterfell now. Tonight._ Jon opened his mouth, but before he could say a word, the hairs rose on the back of his neck. He half turned to look behind him, his hand reaching for the hilt of his sword. 

Before he could complete the move, a body slammed into him throwing him onto the floor and knocking the wind out of him. Gasping, he rolled to the side as a spear slammed into the ground where his head had been. He looked up to see Obara Sand standing over him, her face dark with fury. 

“You,” she spat. “You killed Tyene.”


	20. Realizations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was hands down the most difficult chapter I have written in terms of plot. So many thanks to Wendynerd, who was just phenomenal with comments and well-placed smackdowns on earlier drafts. All flaws are entirely my responsibility. 
> 
> Some of this was a bit hard to write, so take warning.

Jon rolled away from Obara’s spear, putting as much distance between himself and her as possible. As he came up on one knee, he drew his sword and felt it light and small in his hand. Dark Sister. He had taken it as a smaller sword was easier to carry in the castle than the bastard sword he was accustomed to, but now he cursed himself. It gave him far less reach or weight than he was accustomed to with Longclaw. Unless he could get inside Obara’s guard, the weapon was little match for her spear. 

He dared a quick glance at the bench Sansa had been on, hoping to find it empty. Instead, he found her still there, seemingly frozen as she stared at them, her eyes wide. 

That quick glance nearly cost Jon his life. Obara slashed at him with her spear and he jumped back out of range. “I didn’t kill Tyene!”

Her eyes narrowed, and she spat out a curse. “Horseshit! It had to be you.” She feinted at him, driving him back further. Jon let her, praying that she didn’t know the Red Keep well enough to back him into a corner. For all that he was at least fifteen years her junior, she moved like the skilled fighter reputation named her. Experience, he knew, could more than make up for the detriments of age. He watched her eyes and her torso, trying to judge her next moves. She was watching him in her turn, assessing his skill. Her experience would work to her advantage in that. Soon she would be ready to pounce on him.

“I swear, I didn’t! I never even spoke to the woman!”

“Leave him alone,” Sansa started. Her voice was shrill. “Jon would never—“ 

“Shut up, slut! Just shut your mouth if you can’t close your legs!” Tears welled in Obara’s eyes and ran down her rough cheeks. “This is your fault, you and your aunt prancing about in her amour and her blue roses. If you want to be a whore, why don’t you go down to a damn brothel and work a shift? It would be the only honest coin you’ve ever earned, you useless bitch! Look at you, too stupid to do anything but bat your eyes and flash your tits at anything with a cock. My mother was a whore, and at least she was honest about it; she admitted what she was.” 

“Damnit, Sansa, don’t listen to her, just go!” 

Sansa didn’t look at Jon. She didn’t even seem to hear him. She just stared at Obara, her face bloodless. 

“You say the North remembers, but so does Dorne,” Obara snarled. “You started this fight, not us. You will never have peace, not a moment of it, not while any of us live.”

“Obara – STOP!” In a swirl of red silk, Loreza Sand interposed herself in front of Obara. She had a curved sword in one hand and a light shield in the other. “We’ve lost Tyene. I won’t let you throw your life away, too. Please, don’t do this. For my sake.”

“He didn’t kill Tyene,” Elia said, coming to stand by Loreza’s side. “I followed them when they left – he never had the chance.”

“Bullshit!” Obara shook her head, and made as if to push by her sisters. 

Elia moved to block her. “Do you truly believe that I would lie to shelter a Stark?” 

The eldest Sand Snake’s face contorted. “We can’t lose another person to this keep and do nothing. We can’t.”

Loreza’s lips were painted a deep red. For a moment they trembled as if she was about to cry, but her face was strong. “I never met the first Elia. I barely remember our father. You were like a parent to me. Please.”

Obara looked at her youngest sister, cursed, and threw down her spear. 

There were guards further back in the corridor. When the weapons were lowered, they stepped forward. The captain looked to Obara. “Lady Sand, you will have to come with us. It is a crime to raise a hand to a man of royal blood.”

Loreza flinched, and Obara held up her hand. “I’ll answer to our weasel of a cousin if he wants to get me for treason. Why not? I’m guilty.” Obara snorted. “And I don’t care what you say, Elia. There is no way that Tyene’s death is a coincidence.” The guards took her by the arm, not ungently. Without a backwards glance at Jon or Sansa, Loreza followed as Obara was led away.

Jon took a deep breath, as the tension of fearing a fight for his life faded away. He looked down at the sword in his hand, then sheathed it in the scabbard Lucion had found. Longclaw would not have served him as well in these narrow spaces, if he had even thought to bring the longer sword. He might have been left facing Obara with only a dagger. 

He looked up to see Sansa staring at the sword. Her face was ashen. “Is that Dark Sister? She asked. “The decorations and the ruby in the pommel looks like Blackfyre, but …”

“It is.”

Sansa shook her head. Her eyes were wide, and she looked at Jon as if she had never seen him before. “You’re carrying a Targaryen sword. Did Aegon give that to you, along with the doublet?”

The hair on the back of Jon’s neck prickled at the tone of hysteria in her voice. He moved towards her, trying to keep his voice unthreatening. “Sansa, it’s all over now. What Obara said—“ 

“No, she’s right,” she said, and she began to laugh. “I’m just a whore. Tyrion told me that too, just a whore who doesn’t charge for her services. That’s been my problem all along, hasn’t it? Talk to Olyvar, you can book the best suite in his place and rent me out for a few nights. If I do well, you could even make enough to rebuild the library tower at Winterfell. Stock it full of manuscripts, too.”

Jon stared at her, his stomach twisting in sudden nausea. He opened his mouth, grasping for words to say. It was as if a deep chasm had suddenly opened under his feet. 

Sansa shrugged her shoulders. Her laughter echoed off the cold stone of the walls. “But you mustn’t take any man below the rank of landed knight. After eight thousand years, the Starks should at least keep some dignity.” Her laughter caught in her throat, and suddenly it was a sob. She put her hands over her face.

Say something. Anything. “Everything is fine,” someone said, and Jon realized it was himself. “It’s all right.” What a stupid thing to say. He groped for some way to make things better. She didn’t respond. Do something. He reached out and put his hand on her wrist.

“Don’t touch me!” She sprung back, and smacked his hand away. “Don’t. Don’t.” Then she stopped, and put her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry, Jon.”

And he knew.

He felt cold, colder than he ever had at the Wall in the depths of winter. “Sansa,” he said, stopped, and took a breath. 

Of all the children of Winterfell, there had been the greatest gulf between them, the least companionship. And yet they had grown up together. With only a few words, or a gesture, or a glance, they could say so much for good or ill. Don’t let her know that you know. Jon fought to keep his face neutral.

He failed. Sansa stared at him, then with a sudden, convulsive movement, she turned and ran. 

Jon went after her. Somewhere behind him he heard a cry of protest, but he ignored it. Sansa was encumbered with a long dress and dagged sleeves; he should have been able to catch her easily, but he couldn’t close the distance between them. She knew these corridors better than he did. For a heart-stopping moment he thought that she was going to the battlements, that she might jump. Instead, he saw Lannister cloaks, and knew they were at the Tower of the Hand.

She ran up the stairs, not looking back. Jon started up after her, but his legs suddenly went weak under him. Far above, he heard a door slam. He found himself on his knees, his face inches from the stone steps. People were standing at the top looking down at him. Young Ermensande stood half-hidden behind a guardsman. “Are you all monsters?” he demanded. “How many of you knew? How many?” He choked, and gasped. For a moment he felt like he was surrounded by wights. “Maybe I should have let the Others through the Wall. Maybe this world isn’t worth saving.”

“Stop,” someone said behind him, and he turned to find Elia Sand there. He blinked for a moment, wondering how she had been allowed entry after what had happened in the halls. Then he realized that he had fought Obara only minutes ago, and they had literally outrun the news. It felt like hours ago to him. Like something that had happened in another life, to another man. 

“You need to stop,” Elia said. She reached out to touch his shoulder. “Blood,” she said. He looked at her uncomprehendingly, and she held up the hand she had touched him with. Her fingers were stained red. He looked down to see that his left arm was soaked from shoulder to wrist, and droplets were running down his fingers and splattering on the steps.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. 

“You need to sit down.” She firmly pushed him into a sitting position, and told one of the guards that a maester was needed. She tore fabric from her gown and deftly wrapped a bandage around the injury. 

“Did you know?” Jon asked her. She met his eyes briefly, then looked down. He could see the shame in them. “You knew what he was, at least. You must have. That’s why you followed me the other night. Why didn’t you warn her? Why didn’t any of us … why didn’t I… By all the Gods, what have I done?” He couldn’t look at her, couldn’t look at anyone, and hated himself most of all. His vision was starting to blur. As he looked down the steps all he could see was the trail of blood he had left behind him. 

*** 

When he next came to some semblance of consciousness, he was lying in bed in his own chambers. He was sweating and shivering in turns. When he turned his head, he saw that the wound in his shoulder was red and puffy. A hand reached down and began applying leeches. Jon watched them grow black and fat on his blood and drop off one by one.

He was moving in and out of consciousness, not sure what was real and what was a dream. He thought he saw his brother’s smiling face in front of him. He yelled and struggled under the heavy bedclothes. I’ll kill you, he wanted to say, but all that came out was gibberish. Aegon’s smile never faded. He reached out and tucked the covers into place around Jon. “Rest, little brother,” he said. “There will be time.” When Jon opened his mouth, Aegon put his finger to Jon’s lips. “Shh,” he said.

In one of Jon’s more lucid moments, a maester came to examine him. Lucion held him down with a strength he had not expected in an old man. “Are you monsters, too?” Jon asked, but they ignored him.

“Sansa …” he gasped.

“She’s fine,” Lucion told him. “She’s with her husband.”

“No, no. She’s not … I want to see her. I want … I need to talk to her. Can you bring her here?”

“She’s with the Hand,” the Maester had said reprovingly, “he’s very ill. If you don’t want to be in the same position, you will remain in bed until you are healed.”

“I will go and speak to her myself,” Lucion said. “I’ll tell her that you need her.”

 _She needs me. She’s alone. All this time, she has been alone. I have to help her._ But he was already sliding back into darkness and dreams. Days and nights passed, and she did not come.

When things were clearer, when he awoke and stayed conscious for more than a few minutes at a time, that was when everything hurt. The first time it happened he had been relieved; he had known he was alive. And then he remembered.

His mind touched the enormity of it and flinched away. Sansa. How could anyone want to hurt her? How? 

He remembered a moment from his childhood. Arya had been four, all elbows and knees, and Bran a round toddler. Old Nan was telling a story about lost children and things in the night. Arya and Bran had been frightened, and they had cuddled into Jon, one on either side of him. Sansa had not moved. She had sat prim and unafraid on a pillow, needlework in her lap. She had laughed at Arya. “It isn’t real,” she had said. “Terrible tales are just things to scare silly children.”

He stared up at the canopy above his bed. It was richly embroidered in black and red, with dragons chasing each other in eternal circles. Targaryen dragons, for a Targaryen prince. He thought of a time when he had called himself Snow, when he had wanted nothing more than to be a Stark, had wanted nothing more than Winterfell. No, he had wanted more than that. He had wanted to be a man of honour. He threw back the covers, and sat up in bed. There was a mirror across the room. He looked at his own face. He wanted to throw something at the image, to shatter it.

His face was that of a Stark. Once he had thought of it as Ned Stark’s face. But now he looked at himself and the eyes that looked back at him belonged to his mother Lyanna. 

And that was the core of it, more even than his own guilt. That was why he had closed his mind to the truth despite all the things he had seen since he had woken in Bran’s cave, despite everything that should have made him see the hell in his sister’s eyes. That was what he feared: that once his mother had the same look, and that his father had put it there. 

He had grown up playing in the crypts with Robb. The stone statue of Lyanna, frozen in her beauty and youth, had been a familiar sight. Jon had always liked the thought of her smiling, and the tales of her wildness. He had imagined her with all of Ayra’s fire and Sansa’s poise and confidence. But then he had learned the truth, and he had wondered. Howland Reed had known Lyanna and he had seen her again at the end, in the Tower of Joy. He claimed that Lyanna had admitted to going with Rhaegar by choice. That she had suffered grievous remorse for the results of her actions, but that at the beginning there had been no violence, no pain, no fear.

But what if she had lied? What if his mother had tried to spare Eddard’s feelings as Sansa had tried to spare Jon’s? What if … he could not complete the thought.

He wanted to rage. He could have set King’s Landing aflame. He wanted to crawl into a hole where he could do no more damage, and bury himself in self-loathing. But that would be useless, and worse than useless. His feelings could not help him now. So he turned them off. 

He had learned to do it during the battles at the Wall. The night he had been forced to kill the wight of Satin, the time when he had burned a dozen dead Wildling children who struggled and screamed at him as they withered in the flames, the memory of Stannis Baratheon fighting on top of the Wall, still grinding his teeth with his entrails spilling out of his guts – there had been times Jon had thought he could not go on. He had once thought that if the boy died he would be reborn as a man, but in the face of the horrors of the dark, the man had been no stronger. So he had found a way to pull a lever in his mind and make those parts of him that wanted to scream and cry go away, leaving only the rest, the parts that thought and planned and acted. Perhaps it was what had driven him to the brink of madness, this trick, but he was back in the crisis now, in a war as merciless and deadly as any he had known in the north. 

Because there was one thing he knew. If he could not bring Sansa back to Winterfell unharmed, he could at least bring her back alive. There would be no stone mausoleum beside his mother’s where the bones of another Stark girl would rest. She was going to live, and do that Jon had to be ready to fight. 

Lucion asked him if he wished visitors. The maester had said that family or friends could come. 

“Robter Storm,” he said.

The man came a few hours later. He did not waste time on sympathies – if anything he seemed amused by Jon’s incapacity. “You’re awake! I was starting to worry – that woman really beat the seven hells out of you. I think under Dornish law you may be her pillow slave now. The King said you were in rough shape.”

“He was here?” Jon said. He felt his flesh creeping, and he turned his face away.

“You make it sound like you were visited by maester Qyburn. Your brother’s charm must come from the Martell side. Either that, or he’s hot for you. I sort of think the latter, and there’s all kinds of things wrong with that.”

Jon restrained himself from flinching. He thought he had done well at hiding his feelings, but Robter’s eyes narrowed. 

“So,” he continued. “Obara Sand is in a cell pending a determination before the court, and her sisters are all confined to their chambers, so all you have to worry about is everyone else who wants you dead,” the Master of Coin continued. “If you aren’t too busy having vapors over a paper-cut, I have things for you. Some of what you asked for, some of what you would have if you were smart enough to know what to ask about. Which you aren’t.”

“Are you just here to insult me, or do you have anything useful to contribute?”

“Can’t it be both? So, that captain of the guard of your sister’s.” Robter picked up a page of notes. “He had plenty of friends among the guards. The ones who know the rumor that he took liberties don’t believe it. Take that for what it is worth. The guards hang together. Lord Ashby, the man who hung him – he’s in the Riverlands, but I was able to hunt up a courtier or two who known him.” Robter scanned his list, and ticked of another point. “Man is called Ashby, but he should be Rivers by rights. He’s a Tully on the wrong side of the blanket – cousin to old Hoster Tully. Man’s ‘bout sixty. Loyalist, not too imaginative, kept his smallfolk better off than some when the war went bad. His wife is the one who had a look at your sister. She’s got quite the reputation. Ex-Septa who ran off to marry the lord, thirty years younger than him, fiery and opinionated. Ashby dotes on her.  
They were probably a bad combination under the circumstances.”

“Any evidence that executing this Joram was someone else’s idea?”

Robter gave Jon a cool look. “No, not that I could say, because remember that I haven’t actually met anyone and getting this all together on the seat of my pants should make Varys shit himself for envy. From what I hear of the pair of them, doesn’t sound like they are big on taking orders from anyone whose name isn’t Tully. No, when they offed the poor bugger, sounds like they thought it was the right thing to do.”

Jon closed his eyes and let his head rest on the pillow. It felt like it took all his strength to continue. “What else?”

“Well, the Ice-Maiden’s Tears has six new verses, so my right arm is sore as hell. Interesting thing is …”

Jon opened his eyes, and looked at Robter. “Sorry, what?”

“The song, you know.” Robter’s jaw dropped. “You don’t … oh hell, of course you don’t. Who would sing it for you, if they wanted to keep their teeth? So, the thing is--” 

“Just tell me,” Jon said with a sigh. He missed Sam.

“So the plot is simple enough. Tragic Lord Stark, beautiful daughter, corrupt court, evil, loathsome, stupid, petty, wormy-lipped King Joffrey, and valiant Tyrion Lannister, who doesn’t swear, wench, or drink. Only thing the man in the song has in common with our Hand is that he’s short. Some minstrel made him sound so noble that he shits rainbows and rides on a unicorn. Promises Lord Stark before death he’ll care for his girl, wins Blackwater Bay so he can ask for the girl’s hand, refuses to consummate, lets himself be arrested so she can escape after the wormy-lipped bastard dies, so on. Been going around for years now. Everyone knows it. Total bullshit.”

“Obviously. Why haven’t I heard it?” Even as he said it, he remembered some songs in the common room at Castle Black that would just stop when he entered. 

“The song’s about your sister’s teats.” From the look on Robter’s face, the Master of Coin was regretting the lost opportunity to get a troop of minstrels in to do a full rendition in chorus. “The idea is that she appears in every verse with a heaving chest, or trembling …”

“Stop. Just stop. I understand.”

“You drink every time her chest gets mentioned, usually with your left hand. There’s two whole verses about the time she was stripped in front of the court. Tyrion thinks that the minstrel must have been there, because he says the description is pretty accurate ...”

Jon swallowed hard. “I have a wolf who can rip a man’s throat out and a dragon that can turn a man to ash with a single breath.”

“The point of all this is that the old song was written to make Tyrion look good. It came out about when he became Hand, and he’ll throw some coin to any minstrel who sings it. Usual stuff. But the new verses – so, there’s the last battle, and the Ice-maiden’s teats are standing on the wall inspiring the men. There’s a romantic dragon prince in love with the Ice-maiden, and an evil desert princess who won’t lend her troops unless the prince marries her. So the prince has to tragically give up the best tits in Westeros to defeat the Others, and she cries. There’s quivering. The end.”

Jon lay back heavily. “He plans to marry her.”

He told Robter everything then, both what he knew and what he suspected.

The master of coin sat silent for a time. “Letting her come down here, possibly not the smartest thing you ever did,” he said.

“I didn’t let her come to King’s Landing. She tried to refuse and I forced her to.”

There was a long silence. Jon looked to see Robter staring at him. “If there is something you want to say, just say it.”

Robter let out a bark of laughter. “Seven fucking Hells, you blew it. You fucked the dog, stuck your cock in the hornet’s nest, got on your knees and sucked off the camel. You’re fucking Ned Stark as the Hand of the King, you’re Theon Greyjoy hundreds of miles from the coast, you’re your Uncle Brandon thinking ‘hey, I’ll call out the prince in front of his crazy dad, what’s the worst that can happen?’ Hell, you’re Tywin Lannister disinheriting all his fucking sons. You’re … you’re fucking Jon Snow telling the whole Night’s Watch to fuck off, he’s going to break his vows and ride off to Winterfell.” He shook his head. “You are so dumb that you might as well have a potato instead of a head. You make that potato look like a fucking archmaester of the citadel.”

“Are you done?”

“I could keep going for hours, but your life may not last that long. You have no proof, and that woman will never say a word. Without proof … anything you do will label you a traitor.”

“I can’t do this without help, but you did not agree to risk your life.” He took a breath. “I would understand if you wanted out.”

“Is that what you think I want?” Robter shook his head. He stood, paced to one end of the room as if he was driven by a piston, and turned back. “You think I backed Renly just because we were kids together? What do you think it is like out there for a bastard who isn’t claimed by Lord Stick-up-my-ass? Awful, and a crap-load better than it is for everybody else in Westeros. I backed Renly because he was a good man, and he gave a shit about people who didn’t have the same name as him. Renly cared. Now you’re telling me that maybe we have another shit king, and you think I’d be out? Fuck you. If you don’t see it through, then I will, and after I’ll come and beat you to death with your fucking balls because you are too craven to deserve ‘em.”

“Glad to have you with me, too.”

“But you still have no proof.”

“I know. But I think I know how I can find some.” Jon told Robter what he planned to do. 

Robter stared. “You are one black-hearted bastard,” he said, in the end. “I can’t condone what you plan to do. Not to involving an innocent. But I’ll tell Loras, and ask him arrange for another cabin, and to be ready to sail at a moment’s notice. And …” he swallowed. “Good luck. If what you plan goes bad, I wouldn’t want to have to live with myself.”

*** 

It was another three days before Jon was strong enough to leave his room, although the maester suggested that Lucion stay with Jon to make sure he did not overexert himself. Jon spent the time learning. At his request, Lucion told him everything the man knew about the court and the courtiers. He told Jon about the Red Keep and the city around it. At Jon’s request, members of the Small Council visited and Jon learned about his brother’s rule. Pictures were forming in his mind of the battle lines he had to draw, of the forces he could muster. But he did not see Aegon, and Sansa still did not come to him.

Finally, Jon as able to leave, leaning on Lucion’s shoulder. At his request, the manservant took him to the Tower of the Hand. He was refused entry. He argued, cajoled, and even threatened. When none of that moved the serving woman – Brella – he sat down on the floor outside the entrance. He stayed there for the rest of the afternoon. He did not truly expect to be granted entry, but he knew his presence there would not go unnoticed by the inhabitants. He stared at the closed door, and hoped. 

Finally, he decided his siege had either accomplished its goal or failed, but that there was nothing further to do. He asked Lucion to take him to the Godswood, and give him some time alone. The place was deserted; the only sound was the rusting of leaves. The followers of the Old Gods said that the whispering of the trees was how the Gods answered prayers. He had believed that. He wasn’t sure that he did anymore. 

The heart tree was an old oak, its trunk covered in vines. He knelt before it, asked for guidance. 

Some say that the direwolves were sent to the Stark children by a greater power. If so, you can take action in this world. I was born to be a vessel of prophecy, to be a warrior against the darkness. Let me have come here for a purpose, he mouthed. It is said that there are some acts so evil that the gods themselves revolt against them. I have followed you all my life. Let me be the instrument of your will, of your justice. But there was no answer. 

He sighed, and stood. He was still stiff with bruises from his fight, and his body ached. He took the spade he had brought, found a clear space near the heart tree, and began to dig. When he had a hole of sufficient size, he opened the box Bran had given him. The seed of the weirwood was no bigger than a child’s tooth. It lay pale in his palm. Across its surface were lines of red like veins. He placed it in the rich dark soil of the south, and gently covered it over, leaving it ready to take root and grow. 

Then there was nothing to do but return to his quarters, and wait. He dismissed Lucion. The sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the water. The evening was cool with a wind off the ocean, promising a night that the southerners would consider chilly. He found a woodbox and built up his fire. With nothing more to do, he saw by the fire, looking into the flames, as the last of the light faded away. 

He had almost given up hope and cursed himself for a fool when a soft knock came. He rose to open it. In the doorway, he found a small figure huddled in a shawl. Ermensande Hayford looked at him through red rimmed eyes. He waited for her to speak, but she said nothing, as if coming to the door had exhausted her will. 

“Do you want to come in?” he asked. There was no answer, then she nodded. He guided her to a seat by his fire. He did not ask her any questions. He knew from his years at the Wall that a troubled person would speak when they were ready. Instead he busied himself with one of the most useful skills he had taken form his time as the Old Bear’s steward: making hot mulled wine over the fire. 

Ermensande blinked as he pressed the fragrant beverage into her hands, took a sip and let out a shuddering breath. “I shouldn’t have come here,” she said. “I don’t even know you. I mean, everyone says you are this great hero, and you saved the world, but …”

“People say a lot of things,” Jon told her. “The world was saved by thousands and thousands of people, and nobody remembers their names.” There was silence between them. “I’m sorry for what I said about monsters,” he told her. “I don’t think you are a monster.”

“Did a lot of good people die at the Wall?”

Despite everything, Jon chuckled. “If you had met any men of the Night’s Watch, you’d know that very few of them were truly good people. Some of them were. The good and the bad died the same way in the end.”

“I used to think that the world was a good place. I thought that most people were good. Now I don’t anymore. People were nice to me because I was rich and they thought I could do things for them. Most people are mean and bad.”

“Don’t say that,” Jon answered. “There have been times I thought it, but people are … just people.”

Ermensande played with the sleeve of her dress. “Do you hate the people who didn’t come to the Wall and fight?” 

Nobody had ever asked Jon that question before. He thought of the lords and ladies of the court, of the smallfolk of the city, of the travellers at the Inn of the Crossroads. He thought of all the people he had known and lost, all the lives unlived by those who fell at the Wall. He turned the question in his mind, and then he rejected the idea utterly. “No,” he said simply. “When I pledged myself to the Night’s Watch I was just a boy. I didn’t know anything.” He thought of Ygritte. “Sometimes I still feel like I don’t. But … some of the world is bad, some of it is good. We fought at the Wall so that people could have a choice of what kind of world they would make.”

The girl nodded, and sat twisting the fabric between her fingers. She looked very small, very young, and very alone. Jon waited. At last Ermensande said. “Prince Jon? I think …”

“Yes?” he said, and waited.

“When we were at Harrenhal, Aegon raped Sansa.”


	21. The Harsh Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is probably one of the darkest in the story. Not coincidentally, it features a lot of Aegon. Be warned. 
> 
> Thanks to Wendy for beta-reading!

Even in the dead of the night, the city of King’s Landing was neither dark nor silent. At the docks, there was the sound of laughter and singing from nearby taverns, the crack of boats bumping against each other, the sound of orders carrying over the water. Jon stood with his hand on Ermensande’s shoulder. She was wrapped in a cloak, her face shrouded. Not far away, Loras was speaking softly to Garlan and Margaery. 

“He will keep you safe,” Jon told her. “Loras is one of the greatest knights of Westeros, and he has sworn vows to me that he will protect you with his life. He will see you safe to the Eyrie, and guard you until the trouble is past, however long that will take.” 

_More to the point_ , he thought, _Loras is a son of one of the most powerful families in Westeros, and his siblings witnessed his oaths_. (They did not know the reasons behind them, although Garlan had clearly wanted to ask questions). Loras might care little for his own life, but his siblings cared a great deal. If Loras died in the defence of little Ermensande, there might be war with the Reach. Jon didn’t think Aegon would risk it.

Not for Ermensande. 

He looked back to the Red Keep. It loomed over the city in the moonlight. Viserion was sleeping there, intertwined with his brother Rhaegal. Jon could feel the dragon’s dreams like fire in the back of his throat. 

Nearby a boat was unloading. A family came down the gangplank. The man was carrying a sleeping child who could not be more than two. The woman had a bundle on her hip, and a small boy by the hand. As Jon watched, she gently showed him how to step from the plank to the safety of the dock. As the child stumbled, she caught him and murmured reassurance.

Margaery was crying as she embraced Loras. Garlan stood back. Jon had spoken to him about Loras, and why his decision to go to the Wall permanently might be for the best. He would write to Lord Commander Mormont and ensure that Loras would be supported by men who understood. Garlan had promised that he would try to make Margaery understand. He said he doubted he could.

“Will I ever see Hayford Hall again?” Ermensande asked. 

“I don’t know,” Jon told her. _I may have ruined this girl’s life. She’s just a child._ “But you will be cared for, and you will be as safe as I can make you. Robert Arryn is a good lord.” _His father started a war rather than surrender his fosterlings. Robert has Jon’s honour, and a good dose of Lysa’s craziness. Only a fool would get into a fight with him._

Ermensande just looked at Jon with those old eyes that knew how little those promises might be worth. “Can you bring Sansa to the Eyrie soon?”

“I hope so,” Jon said. He wished with all his heart that he needed two cabins on that ship, not one. But Ermensande was a child, and he had brought her into this. His first duty was to ensure her safety, and that meant getting her out immediately. It is what Sansa would want, he told himself. It brought little comfort. 

Margaery Tyrell stood on the dock, softly weeping as Loras and Ermensande boarded. Her husband put his arm around her shoulders. Jon wondered what the man’s name was. He had only ever heard him described as ‘Margaery Tyrell’s fourth husband.’ He wondered if the man answered to that form of address.

As the ship pulled away, its sails filling with the wind, Robter came to stand beside Jon. 

“How much did you get from her?” Robter asked.

Jon shook his head. “Not enough. She corroborates what I think happened, but her word alone doesn’t prove it.” He gave Robter the gist of what Ermensande had told him about the summons that he lured Sansa to Aegon’s chambers. “She waited at the feast, and when Sansa didn’t show, she asked Tyrion about meeting with Aegon. He said he had met with him earlier in the day about some letter from Oldtown. I can prove he lied to get her to come to his chambers. But not what happened there.”

Robter shifted, looking uncomfortable. “Brella isn’t as bad as you probably think. She took good care of Renly all those years. She had it hard after Tyrion was arrested for Joffrey’s murder – after serving two traitors, nobody at court would touch her. She had to do washing in a brothel or she would have starved on the street. You can’t blame her --”

“I’m not feeling very charitable right now,” Jon snapped. The wind shifted, and the reek of the city hit his nose. _Is that the smell of corruption? Or just the smell of life trying to survive?/ ___

__“We could have put your sister on that boat,” Robter said. “Whether she wanted to go or not.”_ _

__Jon stared at him. “Take her away by force? Could you do it?”_ _

__“If it had to be done, of course.”_ _

__“Truly? She’s been raped. What would you do if she struggled? Hold her? Tie her hands? Put your hand over her mouth so she can’t scream? She isn’t strong; it wouldn’t be difficult.” He swallowed hard. For a moment, Jon thought of Stannis, and the way he would grind his teeth. Now he understood how the man had felt. “Perhaps it might even be fun for you. After you’re done, you can go to a tavern and pay a minstrel to play that song you like so much.”_ _

__“Hey, this isn’t about me. I didn’t do that shit you are so upset about.”_ _

__“No. Fair enough. But next time you are pleasuring yourself to that song, remember that when our father died, she was eleven years old.”_ _

__Robter didn’t say anything. Jon supposed that was as close to an apology as he was likely to come. “So,” said the Master of Coin at last. “What is our next step? Right now we have nothing. I haven’t been able to turn up any other witnesses from that night at Harrenhal who might be persuaded to speak – not while your brother is in power.”_ _

__Jon looked over the dark water. “There is someone who would talk.”_ _

__***_ _

__Dawn was just beginning to break when Jon found Aegon in the corridor outside the royal quarters. His brother was impeccably dressed in black riding leathers trimmed in red, and he greeted Jon with a smile. “I’m going to take Rhaegal out for our morning flight. Do you feel up to joining us? Blackwater Bay from the air is an amazing sight. Ten miles from here there is a sea arch, and if the tide is low one can fly right through. There’s no better way to begin the day.”_ _

__“Maybe another time,” Jon said. “There is something I need to talk to you about.”_ _

__Aegon paused. “Can it wait? If I am not there when the sun comes up, Rhaegal gets upset.” He grinned. “Once, when we first moved here, he came and stuck his head into some windows looking for me. You could probably have heard the screams half way to the Quarth. I had to train him not to do that.” Aegon was bright-eyed, all full of charm._ _

__Jon realized that his fists were clenched, and forced them to relax. “This is important. Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”_ _

__Aegon paused and raised his eyebrows. Then he smiled. He waved Jon in the direction of his chambers. “As a matter of fact, we do need to air some things. Step inside.”_ _

__The King’s chambers were tastefully decorated in black and red. Jon might have expected them to be ostentatious, but in fact they were far less lavish than Tyrion’s quarters. Aegon had little more than an entry hall and a solar, with two other doors that likely lead to a bedchamber and dressing room. The solar, which Aegon directed Jon to, had simple furniture and a desk piled high with paperwork._ _

__When they were alone, Aegon turned to Jon. The smile vanished from his face. “You surprised me. I don’t misread people often, not as badly as I misread you. But if you ever harm one of my Martell cousins without my leave then you will regret it.”_ _

__Jon stared, taken by surprise. “Obara attacked me,” he said._ _

__“Don’t play dumb. Tyene. Sansa didn’t have the opportunity, and none of the Martells would ever harm another. I have sheltered you from accusations. I won’t have my brother called up before the court like a common criminal. The Grandmaester has put about that some of the poisons she worked with can weaken the heart. But this stops now. Understood?”_ _

__“You suggest that I killed Tyene?” The gall of his brother stunned him. He’s blaming me for his own crime. “Is that what you told Obara?” It made so much sense, and Jon was just thankful that he had not harmed the woman in their fight. _To be stricken with grief for a sibling, and then to be told the perpetrator was within arm’s length … He remembered the days after he had learned of Robb’s death. If he had been able to lay hands on a Frey, they would never have walked away alive.__ _

__“I think there is more Targaryen in you than you let on.” Aegon said. “Was that all you wanted to talk about?”_ _

__“No.” Jon groped for words, then just said it. “When Sansa left Harrenhal … she was running from you, wasn’t she?”_ _

__“It is possible. We had harsh words about some of her dealings. I told you that. Obviously, I regretted …”_ _

__“What else happened?” There was a long silence. Aegon didn’t answer. He just looked at Jon, his violet eyes hooded. Jon felt ill. “You forced yourself on her.”_ _

__Aegon smiled, easily, as if what they were discussing was nothing at all. “Forced? I know that you feel protective of your cousin, but … she’s not the pure delicate maiden you like to think her. Truth is,” he took a breath, “We had a lover’s quarrel. I did not want you to know for Sansa’s sake but she and I … well. For quite some time prior to Harrenhal.”_ _

__It was all Jon could do not to rip his brother’s face off with his bare hands. _If she could endure living with the knowledge of what happened, with seeing him every day, then the least I can do is to listen to him. My penance begins here_. “She escaped in a boat in the middle of the night.” _ _

__“She’s a wilful and passionate woman, I will give you that. A creature like that not taking lovers – it is near a crime against nature. She was made for giving a man pleasure – her lips to be kissed, and --”_ _

__“Stop. Just stop it.”_ _

__Aegon moved a step closer, “Why do you think she primps and preens, Jon? Sansa uses her beauty to get what she wants. She knows that men want her – and she likes the power it gives her. You should have seen her the day she came to my court, all dressed up in a white gown that showed every curve. She couldn’t take her eyes off me that day, and I couldn’t look away from her. Things just progressed from there. I know you don’t like to hear it, but—well, I would hardly be a man if I didn’t want her.”_ _

__“If you are lovers, then tell me one thing. Tell me that when Tyrion dies, you won’t try to prevent me from taking her back to Winterfell.”_ _

__Aegon paused. “She is my –“_ _

__“She is your nothing. You have no claim on her. And you never will have, not ever.” Jon could hear his own voice crack._ _

__“You have no idea. No. She cannot leave, and she will not leave.” Aegon shook his head, and he half turned away from Jon. “Listen to yourself; you are being absurd. Ask her if you like. She doesn’t want to go.”_ _

__“Because you’ve terrified her, you lying son of a bitch. You put her on the small council to trap her here, you kissed her when she was drunk and let the whole court shame her for it, and at Harrenhal, you lied to get her to come to your chambers … you could never have so much as touched her fingertips without trickery and lies and force.”_ _

__Aegon turned back, and his face distorted with fury. “And if your damn family had not indulged and neglected that woman she would never have thought to refuse me. You are not the King of Westeros, little brother, I am. Who in the seven hells do you think you are to tell me what I may and may not do?”_ _

__Jon nodded, and let out the breath he had been holding. So. “What there may be between you and I -- Sansa has nothing to do with it.”_ _

__Aegon stepped back. There was a flash of irritation in his eyes as he realized that he had allowed himself to be provoked, but it vanished as quickly as it came, and he returned to calm. “I never said she did.” He looked around the room, looked to the door behind Jon._ _

__Jon kept his eyes on his brother. The Kingsguard were outside in the corridor. _I could kill you with my bare hands, brother, long before they could come to your aid._ “Then let her go. Whatever grudges you may bear, let me pay for them.”_ _

__“Very well,” Aegon replied easily. “I will. She can leave the Red Keep at any time and go wherever she wishes. I will do nothing to harm or pursue her. She could even marry that Podrick of hers, if he still wants her. Take her back to Winterfell, if you wish – let her try to find some kind of peace.” Then he smiled. “But I have a condition. You. You will remain here in the capital with your dragon. You will support my reign in all things, with dragonfire if necessary. You will never oppose me in public or in private, not matter what I do, no matter whom I do it to. If I let her go, Westeros is mine. Forever.”_ _

__Jon stopped, stunned. “You cannot ask that of me.”_ _

__“That’s my price.”_ _

__He took a breath, closed his eyes. _Why must I be forced to make this choice over and over again? May the Silent Gods have pity on my soul. Forgive me, Sansa._ “I … I can’t do that. No. I will do anything else you ask, but no, I cannot leave this city – this country – to your mercy.”_ _

__“I never thought you would. So, since you have nothing else I want, and you can’t give me back Daenerys, I’m keeping Sansa.”_ _

___Dany was never yours. She belonged to herself. You are mad. Completely mad._ _ _

__“What did you do to her? She’s like an animal that has been beaten. I had Dark Sister, and the way she looked at it…”_ _

__“Oh that. That wasn’t the rape. After she was brought back to Harrenhal, I gave her something to think about. Let’s just say she hasn’t tried to run since.” Aegon shrugged. “I actually regret that – I was angry and overreacted. I must say that I rather admire her spirit. I thought she had been so cowed by the Lannisters that she didn’t have it in her to rebel. But she understands the situation now. Sansa is quite a bit more intelligent than you are.”_ _

__“You cannot be serious,” Jon said. “Your position is impossible. Do you really think that you can win a fight with me on this? Perhaps the Martells will back you, but Dorne is the smallest kingdom, and who else in Westeros would endure what you have done? You have one dragon, brother, and Rhaegal is not Balerion the dread. You’ll lose your kingdom, and your head.”_ _

__“You would go to war with me?”_ _

__“I would. I will.”_ _

__Suddenly Aegon laughed, an almost joyful peel the echoed off the walls. “Oh my brother, I know that you loath me, but this would be worth it just to have you here with me at last. I’ve been so alone all these years. You should know now that you’ll never be a Stark.” He sobered and stepped closer. Jon had to steel himself not to back away._ _

__“I understand how you feel,” Aegon said. “You are a prince and you grew up a bastard, scorned by everyone you met. Even looked down on by those closest to you – your own blood kin. How that must have rankled. And then you were sent to the Wall, to never know a woman, or comforts, or honours. They just put you out of their minds, left you to that living death. If it hadn’t been for the war, you would have grown old and grey up there, your life wasted.” He grasped Jon by the upper arm. “And Ned Stark knew that you had the blood of kings. Doesn’t it make you angry?” Aegon leaned closer, so his eyes were a mere breath away from Jon’s. “Don’t you want revenge?”_ _

__Jon shook himself free, stepped back, but Aegon was on him again._ _

__“You are so angry with me. Perhaps I have transgressed on something you desired for yourself. You need not be ashamed. We are Targaryens, and live by a different standard than other men.” Aegon put his hand on Jon’s arm, and lightly ran his fingers up to the shoulder. “I’m not jealous,” he purred. “I don’t mind sharing.”_ _

__Jon’s brain told him he had to control himself and keep his brother talking while he got as much information as he could. It was almost with bemusement that het himself grab Aegon by the neck and force him back over the desk. Aegon struggled, and Jon watched himself jab his brother in the kidneys and crotch. _Interesting. Good. Very good, _that other part of himself thought, as Aegon doubled over in agony, and Jon’s hands tightened on his throat and started to choke the life out of him. He leaned over and applied his weight. Aegon’s eyes started to pop and he clawed at Jon.___ _

____Then a hand reached over his shoulder and seized his wrist. “Stop,” a woman’s voice said. “Jon, stop this, please.”_ _ _ _

____He was like a machine rather than a man as he turned and looked into a pair of bright blue eyes._ _ _ _

____“Jon, stop, please,” Sansa begged him. He stared at her. Her hair was undone and tangled, her lips red and almost swollen. She was wearing nothing more than a thin silk shift that left her arms bare, open at the neck._ _ _ _

____There was a moment of complete suspension of his mind, then Jon pushed both Sansa and Aegon away and sprung back. His hand reached futility for his belt, but no steel could have been brought into the presence of the king and he was unarmed. He gasped like a fish pulled from the water._ _ _ _

____“That was awful, even by your standards,” Sansa said to Aegon. Her voice was flat and dull._ _ _ _

____“I thought you would appreciate it,” he told her._ _ _ _

____Jon just stared at her, at his brother, to aghast to even form a coherent sentence. Sansa met his eyes, then looked at the floor. There was a moment of silence between the three of them._ _ _ _

____“My apologies, but I have a dragon who needs exercise,” Aegon said, straightening his riding leathers. “Brother,” he nodded to Jon. “Sweetling, I am sure you can handle this.” He put a hand in the small of Sansa’s back, pulled her close, and kissed her on the lips. “I will leave you to talk,” Aegon said. He paused. “Assuming, that is, that the two of you can figure out how to do that.”_ _ _ _


	22. Of Love and Choices

Usually, a man is borne, lives, and dies, and few take notice of his actions in the middle. Nothing was that simple for Jon. _Not even my name is simple_ , he thought. _That seems unfair._ Jon Snow, Lord Commander, the Prince that was Promised, Jon Targaryen. Too many names. Instead he had been born over and over again – in a bed of blood and blue roses in a Dornish tower; in the snow, fighting to suckle from a dead mother; in the fire of a funeral pyre, to be cosseted by a naked hairless girl with eyes of flame; and at last in a cell of ice, with a wolf and a woman of fire at his side. _For a man used to birth, I should have learned to accept uselessness and humiliation._

_Fuck._

Sansa had gone to dress. Jon sat with his elbows on his knees, his head bowed, as he waited for her to return. Finally, he heard her footsteps, saw the hem of her gown as she stood in front of him. _So. Once again, I start over. You know nothing, Jon Snow._

Sansa looked down at him, and her blue eyes were like cold fire. “I know you have questions. You think I am your brother’s mistress.” She paused, and he waited. “I am not. I do not know if what I have to say is a comfort or not, but it is the truth. Perhaps I should have just said it at the beginning. Someone once told me that I am a terrible liar.” She went to Aegon’s desk, and unlocked a bottom drawer with a key she took from her pocket. She produced a sheath of papers bound with a black ribbon. Silently, she gave them to Jon. “These are duplicates. The first copies of the documents are filed with the faith in the Great Sept of Baelor,” she said. 

__Jon unfastened the ribbon, and read._ _

__The first document was a sworn statement from Tyrion Lannister dated from the end of Winter. It attested that his marriage to Sansa Stark of Winterfell had never been consummated, and that she was in law not his wife. He expressed his consent to her seeking an annulment at any time she desired. The document had been updated two moons ago, sworn, witnessed, and sealed with the mark of House Lannister._ _

__Next came an annulment of the marriage of Tyrion of House Lannister and Sansa of House Stark signed by the High Septon._ _

__A declaration from the High Septon followed. It stated that, in keeping with the traditions of the Targaryen dynasty and the conventions of the law of Westeros, the man who sat on the throne could contract a valid marriage between more than one woman at the same time, and that each union would be a true marriage not just by law but in the eyes of the Seven Gods._ _

__The fourth was a declaration by the High Septon dispensing with the consent of a male family member to the marriage of Sansa of House Stark._ _

__His hands were shaking as he turned to the final document, knowing what he would find. And there it was: A document attesting to the marriage between Aegon of House Targaryen, sixth of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms Protector of the Realm, and rider to Rhaegal the Cunning, and Sansa of House Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, witnessed by the High Septon, the Grandmaester, and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. It was dated three days after his fight with Obara._ _

The first document had been penned in a crabbed, messy script that Jon recognized from letters that he had received from Tyrion Lannister as the Hand of the King. The others were different. Other than the signatures, the writing was neat, graceful, and familiar. _Maester Luwin had always said Sansa wrote as beautifully as any scribe._

__He looked up at her. “This cannot be legal.”_ _

__Her lips twisted in a wry smile. “Aegon and I had to talk rather fast to get the Faith to agree. We agreed to keep the marriage secret, and that as soon as Arianne is set aside, we will be re-wed in the Great Sept of Baelor. Even so, I doubt they would have supported us if not for fear of your taking the throne. The High Sparrow preaches his piety, but he is quick enough to compromise if the alternative is a King who worships a heart tree and whom the followers of R'hllor claim is their god’s chosen.”_ _

__“I don’t understand. Why? All of this – why?”_ _

__She sat down in the chair opposite him. In a seemingly unconscious gesture, she wrapped her arms around her waist. “At Harrenhal – well, you know what happened.” Her voice was clipped, controlled. “After, I thought I could run. Even after they brought me back – I still believed if I just waited for my chance, that I could get away. That maybe I could return to some semblance of my old life.” She shook her head. “The court was on the way back to King’s Landing when I realized,” she took a breath, and let it out. “My blood didn’t come, and I realized that I might be carrying his child.”_ _

Jon felt his stomach turn to ice. _No._

__“It was stupid, so stupid, but … I never drank moon tea. I was too afraid to ask a maester before I left the castle, and I thought, it was only once, and then the hard riding – well, I thought it wouldn’t take. I was wrong. I was ill all the time, and it became worse and worse. Nausea, dizziness – I was so tired I could hardly stand. I couldn’t keep it hidden.” She half-laughed, and then Jon saw that she was fighting not to weep. “I don’t know if you can understand this. I don’t even truly understand it myself. But I want this child. I love this child. And I am going to give it the best chance it can have in this horrible world. That chance is to be born the legitimate heir to the throne of Westeros.”_ _

__“There must have been another way.”_ _

__“Like what? Once you knew, I was afraid that you would take me away by force. Even if you couldn’t bring yourself to kill this child with tansy, do you think Rickon would have the same restraint? Or Robert Arryn?”_ _

__She brushed her hand across her eyes, dashing away tears. But her voice was hard. “And if it was born, then what? Should I have tried to pass the child off as Tyrion’s, hoping it isn’t born with violet eyes? I would spend the rest of my life fighting Martyn Lannister for Casterly Rock. Or let the child be born a bastard? Tell me that that is a fate you would wish on any child, you of all people. And even as a bastard, the child would be a threat to any other sons Aegon might have, or to whoever sat on the throne, and to their sons. There would be no peace for this child as a bastard, not ever.” She shook her head. “No. My child will live with the consequences of the choices I make now for the rest of their life. Aegon is what he is, but he wants this child as much as I do. It is done.”_ _

__“Can I ask you a question?” he said. She looked at him warily, and his heart broke. “Would … would you mind if I gave you a hug? You can say no--”_ _

__Her face crumpled, and suddenly she looked very young. She shuffled her chair closer to him, and put one tentative hand on his shoulder. He saw the room turn watery in front of him as warm tears trickled down his cheeks. He wanted to just reach out, but he forced himself to be slow and cautious as he put his hands on her shoulders. Then she moved, and he felt her warmth against his chest, shuddering like a stunned bird._ _

_He thought of all the heroes he had loved in stories as a boy. They would know what to do here. They would soothe her with a word, whisk her away to safety, defeat the villains, and there would have been joy and happiness forever. But the stories had left out how to do any of those things. All he could do was to hold her, and curse himself._

__After a time, she pushed away, sat down again, and smiled at him through her tears. “It isn’t so bad,” she said. “You just saw Aegon at his worst. He’s been desperate for you to know.”_ _

__Jon nodded. He might not have guessed the truth if it hadn’t been for his brother. Just the man’s smirk alone should have told him everything before he ever reached King’s Landing._ _

__“This was like lancing a boil. He should be easier to deal with now. He’ll go on a dragonride, and he will come back contrite and full of charm. If he isn’t frustrated or bored, he’s easy enough to manage.”_ _

Jon shook his head in wonder at how she could say the words. _Sansa, the man raped you._ “How can you be so calm?” 

__“I didn’t make the world, Jon, I just live in it the best I am able.”_ _

__“Then this world is bullshit!” She opened her mouth in protest, and he snorted. “Yes. I know. Language. But not good enough. Not for you, not for any woman. I didn’t know how cruel it could be -- yesterday I was hearing about an awful song someone wrote about your bosom.”_ _

__Sansa laughed. “The Ice-Maiden’s Tears? Nobody would have sung that if I hadn’t put the sex in. Although if I had known it was going to become as popular as it did, I would have never wasted it on Tyrion.”_ _

__“You wrote that?” He would not have thought he had it in him to be surprised again today, but he was flabbergasted. He remembered Sansa excelling at music as a child, and the dreamy, silly poetry she wrote. He could envision her writing music, but the thought of her penning a lewd tavern drinking song about herself was inconceivable._ _

__“Influencing opinion in the south is not so easy when one lives at Winterfell. I have three minstrels on retainer who spread my songs. I’ve written two about you, one about Davos’ rescue of Rickon from Skaagos, and even a song about Arya’s escape from King’s Landing. The half-burned knight – that one is mine, too. I pay my debts. Tyrion is not a good man, but he has goodness in him. When we were married, he gave me what kindness he had to give.”_ _

__“Those new verses, about you and Aegon and Arianne. Did you write those, too?” He thought of his beautiful, fiery good-sister with her sad eyes, mocked as an evil desert princess._ _

__“I don’t hate Arianne. But until she is set aside and Aegon and I swear vows openly in the Great Sept of Baelor before all of Westeros, she is a threat to my child’s future.” Her face was still and resolute. “I never wanted to hurt anybody.”_ _

__“Sansa, you never, ever, need to fear for this child’s life.” He took a breath. “It will have the best, strongest guardians in the world. Your family – we won’t make the same mistakes again. You didn’t have to do this.”_ _

She just smiled, gently, sweetly, and her eyes were cold as the Wall. _She doesn’t believe me._

__“It’s all right, Jon. That old life – it couldn’t have lasted anyway. I was bound to lose Winterfell to Lyanna Mormont, and after Tyrion died and when Rickon came of age he would have sold me.” Jon opened his mouth to protest that Rickon loved Sansa, but she continued as if he had not moved to speak. “Aegon is not the man I would have chosen, but then I never expected to have any say in the question of who shares my bed. At least he’s not Joffrey.”_ _

__Jon stared at her. “Like that makes a difference? By that standard, every man in Westeros is Aemon the Dragonknight.”_ _

__“It makes a difference to me,” she said pointedly. She gestured to the back of her thighs. “I will bear scars from Robb’s victory at Oxcross until the day I die. The only reason my maidenhead survived Joffrey was that … an unwilling woman takes effort. Even me.” Her face twisted with scorn, whether it pertained to of herself or of her long-dead betrothed, Jon could not tell. “Joffrey was never big on effort.”_ _

__“Not all men are like Joffrey or Aegon,” Jon said._ _

__“No. But do you know what I have always wondered? Whether father ever spoke to Joffrey, even once. I don’t believe that he did, not once, in all those months in King’s Landing. He was a good man. He loved me, I know that.” Her voice broke. “But he was supposed to protect me, too.”_ _

_By the silent Gods,_ Jon thought. _Me, Robb, father. What a mess we have made of Sansa’s life._ Jon slid from the chair to his knees in front of her. He took her hands in his. “I am sorry,” he said. “I will free you from this, I swear. You can do as you wish when you are his widow. A posthumous child is still legitimate.”

__“I don’t want any more war on my account. Westeros has known enough chaos. I want this child to have a world of peace to grow up in.”_ _

__“I have seen war, Sansa. But sometimes the price of peace is too high.”_ _

__She shook her head. “If I move against Aegon, I might be taken from the birthing bed to the headsman’s block. This child has no one but me; I will not risk my life. If you move against Aegon, you do it alone.”_ _

__He nodded. “I understand.”_ _

__She looked down, her eyes shrouded. “What are you planning? He has a dragon, Jon. And the two of you are the only Targaryens left.” She put her hand onto her belly in a brief, protective, gesture. “No rider has ever controlled two dragons at once. You have no allies at court – now that I am his wife, even the Northern Alliance may forgive what happened at Harrenhal. Jon, I don’t want to watch you die the way I saw father die.”_ _

Her hand still rested on her stomach. He could hear the echo of her unspoken words: _But if I must choose between this child and you, I will choose the child._ He thought of what she had said when he had spoken to her before the Iron Throne: _What do you know about what I want? What do you know about my loyalties?_ Now he looked at her hand resting on her belly, and he knew the answer. _No matter what happens, Sansa intends to survive._

“It is better that you don’t know,” he said. “If I fail, you cannot be blamed.” _And if you believe I am going to fail, Sansa, you cannot betray me._


	23. Griff on the Throne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the beginning of the third and final section of the story. As you will see, the structure of POVs change in this section, although I intend to be flexible for upcoming chapters.
> 
> Thanks to Wendy-Nerd for fantastic beta-reading and edits!

_The Red Keep was full of minds, tiny minds and tiny ears that stole about on silent tiny feet. Even the Master of Whispers did not know they were all there. They moved through cracks and crevices, they perched on windowsills, they stole through the rushes on the floors._

_In the kitchens and stables and guardrooms of the Keep worked men and women without great names or wealth or honours. They moved softly on the staircases and stepped into alcoves when the lords and ladies passed._

_For each great noble, a horde of lesser ones followed. Coinless younger siblings, injured fighters, grandmothers and aged uncles all lurked in the corners of fine chambers and bore documents and gifts._

_And they all carried secrets._

*** 

Jon:

To a soldier, the time in between battles was as valuable as the fighting itself when it came to winning the war. Jon would not act until Aegon and Sansa had married in truth, in the eyes of all the faiths of Westeros. Beyond the consequences to Sansa and her child, an heir to the throne whose legitimacy was questioned by anyone not a proponent of the Faith could plunge Westeros into a religious war. He could do nothing for now. He accepted that. 

So when he returned to his quarters, he did not rage or curse or weep. Instead he bathed, consumed a large meal, and then slept for the day and much of the night. Then, the next morning, he took stock.

His first task had been to send an urgent raven to Rickon, warning the young man to take all possible precautions for his safety, and encouraging him to marry Lyanna Mormont at his earliest opportunity if that was his intention. _Sansa is heir to Winterfell, with her child next in line. All it would take would be for Rickon to have one ‘accident’ when riding_ … Jon shivered. 

It was too early for any word to come from the Eyrie yet, but Jon was glad that Ermensande was away safe. The court would be an even more dangerous place for the foreseeable future. Sansa had been furious when she learned what he had done, but she accepted the need to ensure Ermensande’s safety. Jon made sure to carefully hide the sworn statement she had provided him with until the time was right. 

He wrote to Robert Arryn anyway, but kept the contents of the letter innocuous. Loras and Ermensande would advise the young Lord of the Vale of the situation in person. 

He sent less urgent messages to various northern bannermen, to Shireen Baratheon in Storm’s End, and to Edmure Tully’s castellan, inquiring into the state of their domains and affairs, and inviting ongoing correspondence. To Lord Commander Mormont, Jon sent a message advising that he would not be returning for the foreseeable future, but to contact him immediately should there be any change in the situation at the Wall. 

That done, he met with two of the tailors Lucion arranged for him. With the manservant’s help, he ordered a wardrobe appropriate for an extended stay at court. Aegon’s doublet was costly and would be sold outside the capitol with the proceeds to go to the poor. 

Lucion himself, Jon learned, was available to serve until Martyn Lannister succeeded to the lordship, at which time he would receive new instructions from his liege. Jon planned to establish a new household without ties to Sansa, so that suited. He did have the manservant making inquiries about located a trustworthy healer to attend Jon should he have any future illnesses; the ill health that followed his fight with Obara was conveniently timed, and the signature of the Grand Maester on the marriage documents did not inspire trust. 

Robter was in the process of arranging access to as much of Jon’s incomes as could be managed while still honouring his commitments to the veterans and widows of the battle at the Wall. With summer and Westeros at peace, those commitments had become less onerous in recent years. _I must find a way to unthrone a king without creating chaos. How does one go about such a thing?_

Still, all was in hand. He was preparing as well as he could for strife with his brother. But in two night’s time there would be an event that somehow struck even greater fear into Jon’s heart.

A formal ball.

***

Sansa:

Sansa stood on a stool and watched in the mirror while Marsey Waters pinned the waist of her gown to fit. She feared it beginning to thicken. _How long before a woman starts to show?_ She never needed to know before, and she did not trust the Grand Maester with his blithe assurances and cold eyes. She breathed a sigh of relief when Marsey said that she had lost weight. The garment needed to be taken in.

The gown was a mourning dress, which she had ordered in anticipation of Tyrion’s passing: all the finest black Myrish lace over charcoal grey silk, with tiny gems here and there in the fabric to break the monotony. Marsey assured her that later the silk underlay could be changed for another colour. _It is a good thing, thought Sansa, given the cost of the dress._ There would be little enough time in which she would be able to mourn her first husband. 

A few days earlier, she had watched from a window as Tyrion was brought to the dragon’s courtyard. Jon and Aegon had stood well away from each other while Elia Sand strapped Tyrion to Rhaegal’s back. The Sand Snake adjusted straps and given instructions before the riders mounted. The dragons leapt into the air, spreading their wings and leaving King’s Landing and the Keep far behind. Sansa watched them until they were just two specks dancing in the haze over the bay.

They brought Tyrion back hours later. He returned shaking and pale, his face lined with pain, but his eyes were alight. He told her about sea arches and tiny islands, of seeing ships from the air and whales breaching, of the wind in his hair and the feel of the air whipping past him as Rhaegal dove and soared. The maester who attended Tyrion gave him milk of the poppy, and Sansa sat by his bedside until he fell asleep. He awoke worse and she knew they would never be able to move him again.

Sansa tried to imagine the underlay of the lace dress in Targaryen crimson. _Perhaps I should keep it as a mourning dress, I will inevitably be mourning a husband or a brother_ , Sansa thought, looking at herself in the mirror. She resisted a bitter laugh. _Wearing mourning for the first time despite a lifetime of grief._

Marsey asked her to move so that she could pin another section, and Sansa obeyed. The gown was lovely, she had to admit that, made from beautiful material that cost most than its weight in silver. It was also pleasant to stand here being ministered to by Marsey’s deft hands, consulting with the older woman on stitching and the art of working with lace, and knowing that when they were done the dress would be whisked away for work that would have taken Sansa hours of stitching if she had done it herself. She liked listening to the chatter of the two young apprentice girls who were making final alterations to the blue silk she would wear to tomorrow’s ball. 

For a moment, she wondered whether she could make one of them her maid, but then she dismissed the idea as soon as she had it. She would never bring an innocent deeper into the Red Keep than they already were. Besides, she thought, watching the girls in the mirror, a new maid would have no reason for loyalty to me. She thought suddenly and achingly of Ermensande Hayford. 

A wave of nausea struck her, and she fought to keep her expression neutral. The Grand Maester had given her instructions as to what to eat during her pregnancy. When she complained that she could keep almost nothing down, he told her that she must force herself to eat for the sake of the baby. Aegon proved more sympathetic, but had no practical advice to offer. Arianne never suffered from tummy problems during her pregnancies. 

So there was nothing to do but to carry on and hope her symptoms improved. Their marriage had to remain secret until Aegon had concluded negotiations with Arianne. For the king to have two wives, even with the blessing of the Faith, would discomfit even many of the Devote. The followers of the Red God would reject it outright, Sansa knew, and even the Ironborn recognized only one rock wife as a true bride. She could not even imagine how the North would react. 

The dress she was wearing now was far grander than what she had worn to her second wedding. The affair took place in the Great Sept late at night, a cavernous dark space made darker by their small group and limited candles. Only the High Septon and three other Septons of the Most Devote were present from the Faith, with the Lord Commander Corbray, and the Grand Maester as witnesses. Sansa had been the sole woman in the room.

Prior to the ceremony, the High Septon gave her a lecture about virtue, fornication, and about the need for impeccable conduct, which did not include being pregnant out of wedlock. Sansa nodded and responded with the right words every time it seemed appropriate. After some time, the man gave up. She overheard him telling one of the other Septons that “the girl was well enough trained.” He sounded disappointed. She couldn’t muster the energy to care.

Aegon’s meeting with the High Septon lasted significantly longer. After several hours, one of the Most Devote had come to retrieve Sansa from the room where she was left to pray about her sins. (She had in fact used the time to nap.) The man guided her to the Great Sept, deserted except for the High Septon and Aegon. The King appeared pale as he stared straight ahead. He looked furious. 

“Are you all right?” Sansa whispered to him as they waited for the witnesses. 

Aegon just shook his head, then he stopped with a wince. He shifted uncomfortably; then looked away and muttered something.

“What was that?”

“The bastard flogged me,” Aegon spat out, enunciating each word. 

And so he had. That night they were given the use of one of the Great Sept’s most luxurious apartments – rooms that once belonged to the High Septon himself, although the incumbent used a simple cell without a window – and she had seen the neat rows of marks on Aegon’s back. Seven lashes, one for each of his years married to the Queen, then another seven for the gods he dishonoured with his adultery. 

She looked at the High Septon with much more fondness after learning of the penance he had demanded – no, extracted with his own hand. The man seemed quite discomfited through the rest of the ceremony. She had the impression that he rarely did anything to give a women cause to look on him with joy. Possibly never.

That moment of pleasure sustained her as she stood in the sept and placed her hand into Aegon’s and the High Septon had said the words. “I do solemnly proclaim Aegon of House Targaryen and Sansa of House Stark to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them.”

And it was done. 

Now she stood on a stool, holding herself perfectly still, while the seamstress dressed her in black, and told her how exquisite she looked, and she struggled not to retch. 

*** 

Aegon:

The throne room was full of whispering courtiers. Their voices echoed off the high ceilings and rebounded until the sound was a single entity that emoted on its own volition. To Aegon Targaryen on the Iron Throne, the sound was an old companion. He had come to know its moods and whims, its unpredictable humour and its savage silences.

Sansa sat below him, and he forced himself not to look at her more than absolutely necessary. She was impossibly lovely in cloth of silver and white lace, with the bodice cut to cup her breasts and cling to her waist. Delicate slippers covered in diamonds and pearls poked up from under the hem of her gown. 

He found himself repressing a smile – he had been astonished to discover that she had never in her life taken more than a few steps without shoes on. Her feet were softer than some women’s palms. From the whiteness of her unblemished skin to her even, fine-boned fingertips, his second wife was the product of a lifetime of labour devoted her physical perfection. Her intellect and ability were excellent bonuses.

He glanced at the Queen beside him with regret. Nothing would have made him happier than to have been able to keep two wives. Arianne had been the companion of his early years on the throne, the mother of his children. However, his throne was not as secure as his ancestor Aegon the Conqueror, nor was his first wife as amenable. 

Telling Arianne he had wed Sansa, and the reason why, proved a difficult conversation. His wife – his first wife – was already reeling from Tyene’s death. She took the news in complete, and uncharacteristic, silence. All she said was, “what beautiful children the two of you will have.” Then she asked him to leave her chambers, her voice clipped and cold.

He forced himself to focus on the hearing. The evidence against his cousin Obara was plain. She had attacked the Crown Prince, and only the intervention of her sisters Elia and Loreza saved his life. No justification existed: the Grand Maester testified that there were no marks of foul play or known poisons on the body, although some of the compounds Tyene had in her room could weaken the heart if used improperly over long periods of time. Aegon could see Sarella glaring at the man. He knew her views – although the Grand Maester was technically correct about the compound, the phenomenon was very rare.

Still, Sarella could offer no alternative explanation for her sister’s death. He had made sure that the court heard that Sansa was by Tyrions’ bedside for the entire night, that the Kingsguard could attest that Aegon never left his chambers, and that Elia at least partially exonerated Jon. (Although it escaped few that Jon had the weakest alibi of the three of them.) 

He made a show of regret when he announced Obara’s guilt. He glanced at Sansa, and she rose on cue to ask for mercy for the accused, as she had been driven to madness at the death of her sister. He nodded, and granted it. The whispers rose, and he could almost hear what they said. There would be new songs out within the sennight, about the Lady of Mercy, so kind even to those who wished her ill. He nodded to Sansa, and she bent her head, her cold, perfect face showing nothing.

In his youth, Septa Lemore tutored him in how to treat his bride, the delicate maiden he would be joined to, the princess who would bear him sons. In those days he was called Griff, and he had loved and been loved, had trusted and hoped to be worthy of trust. Lemore taught him to be gentle, to be understanding, to know that things take time. She told him not to expect love, that his marriage would be to the benefit of his children, not himself. She told him that just maybe, someday, there would be a chance at affection. 

Aegon entertained no such illusions about his second marriage. However, he counted himself fortunate. Their foundation was as good as it could be in the circumstances. Sansa did not show open hatred for him, and he appreciated that. No matter her feelings, she would dance in his arms at tonight’s ball, counsel him in the Small Council chambers, and share his bed when he requested it, all with the same distant expression, and always with her fingers as cold as ice.

In the back of the throne room, Jon was leaning against a dragon skull and glaring. Aegon felt a touch of warmth at the sight. So what if his brother was likely planning ways to crush his balls between two rocks? He was here, and that meant Aegon was no longer alone.

Griff sat on the Iron Throne, holding himself perfectly still so that the blades would not cut him, and listened to the whispers.


	24. A Formal Ball

Sansa sat at her slanted writing board as a maid worked on her hair. She was already dressed for the ball in the blue gown that had been Aegon’s gift to her, replacing the white dress that had burned in the fire at Harrenhal. She had chosen a different colour and far richer decorations, but in her sketches she had copied the style of the first dress. _This is the ghost of that dress, like I am the ghost of that woman,_ she thought. 

The silk was some of the finest she had ever seen, sheer and soft to the touch, dyed a brilliant cornflour blue shading to midnight at the bottom. She had designed the embroidery to mimic her personal seal. The bodice was covered with brilliant white lilies. Around her hips and down the skirt, the flowers dissolved into tiny falling white snowflakes that vanished before they reached the ground.

She used the time, while the maid combed and braided, to write letters.

To my beloved brother Rickon.

Thank you for the gift of wolf pelts and the pearls. They are beautiful, and it is good to know that you are thinking of me. I will have the pearls made into a necklace that will have every woman in court sick with envy. Although, I must say, I had hoped that the present might be accompanied by a note telling me how you are. Pretending that you do not know how to read and write does not work on the person who taught you.

I know that Jon has suggested you formalize your relationship with Lyanna Mormont. (Yes, your sister has ways of acquiring information that you may not suspect. Keep this in mind when planning your exploits.) I am no longer in a position to tell you what to do, and we both know that much of my past advice has been entirely ignored. (Recall how your arm was broken when you were ten. Yes, I do know the truth. I have always known.) However, I will enter once more into that dangerous territory.

You are very young, Rickon. I know that you are becoming a man and are attempting to fulfil the duties of a man and a lord. Perhaps I have not said this enough, but I am proud of you. Your marriage is a choice you will have to live with for the rest of your life. Lyanna has a good heart, but what one wants when one is young is not always the wisest thing. Your siblings, Jon included, were forced to grow up far too soon and we all bear the scars. You have the chance to do things better.

I am well and happy. Tonight there will be the most marvellous ball held – everyone in the court will be in their finest clothes and the most wonderful food will be served! We will drink Arbour Gold and dance until dawn. I have great hopes of even getting Jon to enjoy himself, but perhaps I expect too much. 

It will be some time before I am able to return to the North, but know that my thoughts and my love are with you.

Your sister, Sansa. 

She sealed the letter and placed it into the pile of her outgoing correspondence. Taking a fresh sheet of paper, she dipped her quill in the ink and began to write again.

Dearest Robert and Ermensande:

I am glad to know that you are together at the Eyrie, and I hope that you come to care for each other as much as I love both of you. Robert, please take good care of Ermensande. Perhaps she could have my old rooms in the Maiden’s tower, with the view over the Vale? I used to love waking up to the sight of dawn over the mountains.

Jon means well, but he tends to look at things in the most negative manner possible. He sees enemies in every shadow. I suppose one cannot entirely blame him. Please do not take his suspicions of his brother as in any way founded in fact. Aegon is, as so many of us are, a person of many facets. Ermensande, you know that Aegon has always treated you with great kindness. You know that.

I hope I will be able to write again with some good news about my future. In years to come we will be together, the three of us. Robert, make sure your cook knows how to make good lemon cakes!

Your cousin and your friend, Sansa

The maid had finished with her hair. Sansa nodded approval when the girl held up a mirror. She waited until the door was closed behind her before taking a new piece of paper and beginning her final letter.

Arya

Tonight is a ball to celebrate the end of the week of the Stranger. Do you know what that means? It has been eight years since I first wrote to you. That night at the Gates of the Moon seems so long ago now, when I sat with blood drying on my hands and first picked up a quill to write.

Robert told me what happened the night Petyr died, and I believe him. But I don’t know why. I would like to believe that I did it to save Sweetrobin’s life, but I no longer believe in stories. Not even the ones I tell myself. 

I look in the mirror and try to remember what our mother looked like. I think of father and all I can see is his headless body, and his legs kicking and kicking. 

Sometimes I think our life at Winterfell, before everything, was a dream. Cersei Lannister was my mother. Petyr Baelish was my father. Robb is gone. Bran is changed into something I do not understand. Rickon was too young to remember when we were a family at Winterfell. Only you and I and Jon are left, and I have barely known how to speak to either of you.

When you come home to Westeros, I will be a better sister to you. I will give you these letters, all of them, to read. I will tell you what I have written eight times: I love you, I am sorry for all the hurt I caused when we were children, I want to be a better sister to you. But do not hurry back. Find the sea monster you’ve always dreamed of seeing. One never knows when all the futures you had hoped for may vanish.

Sansa

She signed her name, and then stopped, her quill hovering over the empty space at the bottom of the page, all the things not said. But what would she say? What could she say? _I want … I wish … I need … I need … I need. I need help._

 _If you ever loved me, help me now._

But the page remained empty. She put down her quill, folded the letter, and sealed it. Then she took a wooden box containing a package of letters never sent, never given, never opened, put it with the others, and locked the box.

***

Jon had only been in the Small Hall a few minutes before he was ready to bolt for the exits. All it took was a man juggling fire to set his heart racing. Turning away from that, he encountered a fool in motely walking on his hands. Then he was nearly accosted by a group of young maids, giggling and looking at him. Finally, he found a safe place near the food tables where he could see what was happening, and wished he could vanish into the shadows. 

Aegon lead the dancing with Arianne. Even from across the room, Jon could see that they did not speak when the dance brought them together, but they moved together with perfect grace. Garlan Tyrell danced with his tiny wife Leonette in his arms – they smiled fondly at each other. Garlan turned away from his wife to dance with a tiny girl who had his eyes. She stood on her father’s feet to dance. Across the room, Robter Storm was laughing loudly and gesturing with a tankard of ale in his hand. He was wearing a bright yellow doublet with orange trim and green leggings. Loreza Sand was dazzling in red, and already had two young lords glaring daggers at each other.

He saw Sansa made her entrance, all the eyes in the room on her. She sparkled in the lights, with diamonds on her wrist and a ruby at her throat. As she moved through the crowd, smiling and nodding to people she passed, Jon was struck by how many of the women had copied her colours. She was surrounded by a sea of blues and lilacs, muted greys and pale greens. Near every young girl in the room was dressed in white, and more women in the room had a tinge of red in their hair than could possibly be attributed to nature. 

She made her way to Jon’s side, and favoured him with a smile that would have looked carefree if it had reached her eyes. “Is that some of your new wardrobe? Colours other than black do exist,” she said. Her voice was sharper than the expression on her face. “I hope you didn’t order an entire wardrobe like that.”

“I like black. I’ve worn black for ten years. Black goes with everything.”

Sansa sighed, and managed to convey with a look that of all her burdens, having an older brother who fancied himself a funny was one of the heaviest. “You should dance,” she said. 

He looked around, but she was between him and the door. “I hate dancing.” 

“I’m aware. But you must dance.” 

So he did. He approached several women, only older, married women. It was not an unusual choice for a young man, even a prince, at his first formal ball. He made sure to approach ladies of high rank, making a slow circuit of the room. 

Then there was his moment. He approached the Tyrell party. “My lord,” he said to Margaery’s husband. “Might I have the honour of asking your wife for this dance?” 

Margaery’s eyes brightened, and she gave her husband a smile when he looked to her. He nodded, and Jon stepped out onto the floor with the Rose of Highgarden on his arm.

He had only briefly been close to her before, and had never spoke directly to her. Now he studied the woman who had been Queen to three Kings. She was still young, and as beautiful as any girl he had ever seen. Her brown eyes were wide and seemingly-innocent, but Jon knew enough of the Rose’s reputation to know there was a quick and clever mind spinning behind that sweet gaze.

“You look uncomfortable, your highness. Are you not accustomed to dancing?”

“I must say it was never my favourite pastime, but dancing with you is a pleasure.” To his surprise, it was true. Margaery glided easily in his arms, and as he did not feel like he was about to make a fool of himself at any moment, he was able to relax in the movement. 

She smiled. “I have three brothers, and have had four husbands, Prince Jon. I know something about how to make a man look good on the dance floor.” The dance took them away to other partners. When they came together again, Margaery looked at him with a question in her eyes. “Did Sansa tell you to come and dance with me? I do not need pity.”

“Is pity the only reason a man would ask you to dance?” Jon asked.

“Not a man, a prince.” They reached the end of a promenade, turned, and their hands met again. Jon was behind a beat, but somehow Margaery was there at precisely the right instant so that his mistake would be hidden. She continued without a pause, “otherwise, I am curious as to why you would go to such lengths to seek me out. You asked three women to dance before me, each of them a little closer to where I was sitting. You wanted to ask me, but you did not wish it to be obvious.” She laughed at Jon’s look of surprise. “You are new to court, your highness.”

“Does it show so much?”

“Not all the time. If pity does not bring you into my arms,” she asked with an arch smile, “then what does? Surely not the fading charms of another man’s wife.” For all the sweetness of her face and the delicacy of her attire, her eyes were shrewd. “You want something from my house.” 

Jon took a breath. He almost fell over his feet in one of the more complicated steps of the dance. This is it, he thought. He could envision Margaery laughing in his face. “I wish to join it. I am asking you to convey to the heads of houses Tyrell and Hightower my interest in opening negotiations for the hand of your cousin Alys.”

She didn’t laugh. Instead he saw what he imagined was a rare sight: Margaery Tyrell at a loss for words. Her eyes were huge and round. Before she could reply, the dance separated them again. Jon danced with Arianne, with Joy Hill, with other ladies whose names he did not know. And then he was back with Margaery again. 

“I had hoped to make Alys Aegon’s next Queen,” she said, but her voice had lost its earlier edge.

“You know she will never be. I may not hold lands, but I am a Prince of the Realm, and of the blood of the two greatest dynasties Westeros has ever known.”

There was a flash of fire in her eyes before she looked down demurely, and Jon knew he had her. From his friend Samwell, he knew more of the politics of the Reach than any other region other than the North. Unlike the Arryns, the Baratheons, the Starks, or the Martells, the Tyrells could not claim descent from pre-Conquest royalty. They were not even the closest kin to the old Gardener Kings – the Florents had that privilege. And no matter how strong they grew, they had never, ever forgotten it. They had tried to make Margaery a Queen, they had tried to wed Willas to Sansa, all for the status they craved. _That is what I have to bargain with. The blood in my veins._

“You must want a great deal from us,” Margaery said. 

“I do.” 

She dropped her eyes, and she could see the wheels turning in her head. “Prince Jon, what you need, or rather, who you need, is my brother Willas. Now that my grandmother and father are dead, he is the head of house Tyrell in more than name.” There was a sparkle in her eyes, and a smile on her lips. 

_Margaery Tyrell knows that if she can pull this off, she is no figure of pity,_ Jon thought. 

“I will suggest he visit the court, and you may make your offer to him.”

So. Jon felt a wave of relief, followed just as quickly by a new terror. “Might … might you do me the honour of introducing me to Alys?” he asked diffidently.

“Absolutely not!” She stopped herself and the flash of anger that had crossed her face was gone as soon as it came. “Alys is young. I will not have her led on with false hopes, nor will she be shamed with rejection. You may speak to her if, and only if, a betrothal is agreed.”

“This isn’t easy for men, either,” Jon told her, as the dance ended.

Margaery bent her head in acknowledgement. Jon offered her his arm, and escorted her back to her husband. 

Alys was a part of the group of the Tyrell girls laughing together not far away. She had fair hair just a shade too dark to be called blond and her eyes were some colour midway between brown and green. Hazel? He did not know if that was the right term. Her features were a bit like those of her cousin Margaery. She appeared very young. He didn’t know anything else about her. 

_What have I pledged myself to?_ He wondered, as he made his way through the crowd looking for Sansa. Lords and ladies who would once have spit on him now cleared his path. _I have sworn to become a kingslayer and a kinslayer, to unthrone the rightful king of Westeros. My brother. Lives will be lost. And now I may have drawn an innocent girl into my plotting._

He found Sansa standing near Lord and Lady Seaworth, watching the minstrels perform on harp, flute, pipe, and drums. Lady Seaworth looked nearly as uncomfortable as Jon in the room full of people, and she seemed to be near a panic. She was lowborn, Jon remembered with pity. At least he had grown up in a Lord’s house, even if he had not been the centre of attention at functions. Davos was holding his wife’s hand, and her fingers were laced through his.

Sansa stood apart, her arms wrapped around her waist. The smile was still fixed on her face, but he could see her misery in the set of her shoulders and in the way she stared fixedly at nothing.

“Are you well?” Jon asked her softly. “You could claim Tyrion needs you.”

She just laughed, as if such a suggestion was the height of absurdity. Jon felt a moment’s irritation with her, then was ashamed of himself. 

_I have no choice but to proceed. _He knew that. _My fault. All of this is my fault._ __

__Suddenly Sansa’s face paled. Jon followed her gaze. A familiar young knight was standing a few feet away, twisting his hands together and looking at his feet. “Podrick,” she said._ _

__The young man looked up “Sansa. You look … you look beautiful tonight.”_ _

__“And you look well. Is your injury healed?”_ _

__“Mostly,” he answered with a shrug. “The Maester wanted me to rest another few weeks, but … but I heard that Tyrion was failing. I came to see him.”_ _

__“Pod,” she said, and Jon felt his heart break. “You cannot stay at court. Once you’ve said your goodbyes to Tyrion, you must leave.”_ _

__He nodded, but his face was stricken. “I’ve heard rumours. They say …”_ _

__Sansa said nothing. Pod swallowed. “You will make a lovely Queen. But then, you were born to it.” He bowed his head. “My lady.”_ _

__He moved as if to leave, and Sansa drew breath sharply. She held out her hands to him. “Podrick, wait. Dance with me?”_ _

__He swallowed, and then took her hands silently, and led her onto the floor._ _

__“They look lovely together.” Elia’s voice came from behind his shoulder. Jon twitched at the crowd that let her get so close with him unawares. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon could see that she was wearing a gold Dornish dress that was caught at the neck and left her shoulders and arms bare. He felt his breath quicken, but this time with more than just anxiety._ _

__“Why do you follow me?” he asked. “If there is something you want to say to me, then say it.”_ _

__“You are right,” she said. “I should have spoken earlier.” Her voice was light, but he could hear the anger behind it. “But I am a craven. My sisters would be ashamed if they knew how afraid I am. No, I will tell you the truth. But not here. Tonight, after you leave the ball. Meet me in the stables.”_ _

__He looked at Podrick and Sansa dancing together, maybe seeing each other for the last time. He looked at the Seaworths, both of them stocky with age, holding hands. Across the room, Alys Hightower was laughing with other maids like the child she was. The wine he had drunk, the tension of his conversation with Margaery, the strain of being in this crowd, all combined to make him light headed. He felt a wild recklessness shake him. He should not go, he knew that, just as he knew he would. I don’t want life to pass me by, he thought suddenly, desperately, and he could feel Elia’s presence next to him like a breath of hot wind. He knew he would go._ _

__***_ _

__Aegon sipped wine and watched the hall from a balcony._ _

__“Your Grace asked for me?” The voice of the Master of Whispers was soft. His perfume filled the air._ _

__Aegon kept watching while he spoke to Varys. “My brother danced with Margaery Tyrell. Do you have agents who can tell me what they said to each other?”_ _

__Varys giggled, and produced a sheet of paper. “This is a transcript of their conversation. There are a few gaps, but my lip readers are very good. It seems that our Prince is courting the Tyrells. Literally.”_ _

__“He’s no fool.” Aegon said after scanning the record. Varys was good at what he did, although recently he had become presumptuous. He had spoken against Aegon’s involvement with Sansa after Harrenhal, and again after the wedding. Aegon was having him watched._ _

__“I can hardly criticize my brother for seeking a bride.” He handed the transcript back to Varys. “Keep me informed. Let my brother have his schemes. Let him think he is winning. It makes this so much more fun.” He looked over the balcony. “Oh, and when Ser Podrick leaves the hall, have him brought to me. I would like to speak to him.”_ _


	25. A Meeting in the Stables

Aegon:

He settled himself into a chair by the fire, and had his manservant bring him a glass of Dornish red. He sipped, and swished it around in his mouth, enjoying the flavours of the excellent vintage. After a few moments, he asked, “how long has Ser Podrick been waiting?”

“Since the last bells, Your Grace.”

“Then send him in.”

The young knight was led in by two guards, his plain attire contrasting sharply with their Targaryen red and black livery. Aegon studied Podrick. The knight looked nervous and very young, although he was a man grown. For all his great deeds and renown, the man conducted himself more like a squire. He was not ill-favoured, the king decided, with his thick dark hair and muscular build, but hardly the type to win a woman on looks alone. His demeanour did not suggest any great charm or style, or even wit with words. 

Podrick had come unarmed into the king’s presence (Aegon felt the reassuring pressure of steel at his waist and wrist), but the king could see that he moved cautiously. _His wound must still be troubling him._ Even so, a member of the Kingsguard stood nearby, his hand hovering over the hilt of his sword. 

Podrick bowed deeply.

“Leave us,” he ordered with a wave of his hand. The Kingsguard hesitated. Aegon frowned. “Do you believe my life to be in danger from one of the most honourable knights in my kingdom? Ser Podrick will do me no harm.” He shifted his gaze to the knight. “Will you?”

“N … n… no, Sire.” The man looked astonished at the suggestion. 

When they were alone, Aegon held out his cup. “Pour me some more, and get yourself some too. Sit with me. Does your wound still trouble you?”

“Some.”

“I never had the opportunity to thank you. After all, you did incur the injury protecting Queen Arianne and I.” Podrick mumbled something that sounded like thanks, and Aegon internally sighed, realizing that he was going to have to do much of the work in this conversation. “You have an impressive seat in the joust. I have seen you ride in more than one tournament. It was a shame that you had to miss Harrenhal. My cousin Elia had hoped to ride against you.” Nothing. “Did you enjoy the ball?”

“It was well hosted,” Podrick said, looking at his feet. “That is, the food and the wine and the music were all… I mean...”

“I understand that you are in Lord Tyrion’s service. Have you seen him?”

Podrick’s throat moved as he swallowed convulsively. “Yes, Your Grace. I was just with him. He asked me to come here to court. I was his squire. That is, I was his squire before I became a knight. When I was a boy. I was his squire.”

“There is something I have long been curious about. Your arms – they are not those of House Payne.” The young knight carried a beautifully painted shield in tournaments. It bore an elm tree, its branches spreading against a setting sun, with a falling star in the sky overhead. House Payne’s sigil was far less attractive, being purple and white checks with gold coins in the squares.

“No. I … I served the Lady of Tarth after Tyrion went to Essos. She taught me to fight. When I was knighted, she gave me the shield she had carried. I took the arms, the arms on her shield, for my own.”

“You were an orphan?”

“Yes. No. Yes. My father died in the Greyjoy Rebellion. My mother remarried. I heard from her after my first tournament victory.”

“Wanting money?”

“Yes. I send her a third of all my winnings.”

Aegon nearly choked on his wine. “Why?”

“She needs the money. She’s my mother.”

Aegon tried not to pull a face, and took another long drink of his wine. He was beginning to see why his self-sacrificing wife was so attached to this man. They were a perfect match. “So how did you come to be in Tyrion’s service as a squire?”

“I stole a chicken,” he said at last. “I was twelve. They hanged the man I stole it with. I don’t even remember his name now. But they didn’t hang me, because I had the Payne name. I knew it was wrong, but …. I was hungry. Then Lord Tyrion took me into his service, and I went to King’s Landing with him when he was Hand of the King.” 

“And you met the Lady Sansa, and you raised your eyes to a maid with blood of the highest nobility.”

“No! No, I swear. I mean … yes, I met her there.”

“And you love her. You loved her from that time?”

Podrick swallowed, his adam’s apple moving. “No. That was the first time I saw her, wearing moonstones and silk, sitting next to King Joffrey at his name day tournament. It wasn’t love. That’s not what love is, seeing someone when you are twelve years old and thinking they are the most beautiful thing you have ever seen, like something out of a legend or a dream.”

Aegon said nothing.

“After the war, I was with one of the convoys of supplies from White Harbour to Winterfell. We were the first group to get through in four months. By the Seven, that trip,” he shuddered. “And when we pulled in she came out to meet us. There was a child on her hip, one of the orphans who had made it to Winterfell, and she was starved and wearing rags. Do you know what she had done? They were on the verge of starvation. Arya had been stacking the bodies of the dead out to freeze for when they needed the meat. And Sansa had braided ribbons into her hair and the child’s. She looked at me, and she gave me the sweetest, most beautiful smile. And I was done. We were both sixteen.” 

He looked down at his hands, the flow of words suddenly drying up. “Your Grace, I misspoke. That is, I would never … I have never presumed beyond my station.”

“Indeed,” Aegon said. “Well, that brings us to the crux of the matter. You hold no lands and you have no income. I am in a position to remedy that. I have two vacant minor lordships, one in the Crownlands, the other sworn to Dragonstone. The latter comes with less land, but more revenue from shipping. You can take your pick. You will also marry within the year. There will be no place for you at court. Is it necessary for me to tell you why?”

“They say that Sansa … that she is to be Queen. Queen of Westeros. She told me I had to leave court. I don’t understand why you would offer … I’ll never see her again.” 

“No. But the thought of you will follow her.” Aegon frowned. “It is a good offer. Why do you hesitate?”

“She asked me to find … there was something she wanted. To find her sister. She looking for sea monsters. Arya Stark. I have some coin Tyrion gave me. He was always very generous. I had planned to go on a quest. It was the last thing she ever asked of me. She wasn’t serious, it is an impossible quest. But I had a mind to try. For her. Sansa, I mean, not Arya. For as long as it takes.”

“You are about to throw your future away for a woman … Did she tell you that she is carrying my child?” Aegon watched him careful, waiting for him to process all the implications of that statement. He flexed his wrist and felt the reassuring pressure of steel, if it came to violence. Podrick might speak awkwardly, but he was not stupid. 

Podrick gasped sharply, his head coming up. There was a long moment of silence. 

“Let …” Podrick’s voice wavered, and he stopped. “Let me stay.”

Aegon looked at the young knight in astonishment. He wondered if he had overestimated the young man’s intelligence. “Do you understand …”

“I do.” Podrick said. He nodded, then swallowed. “I … I would take oath as a Kingsguard, or be her sworn shield.” He stumbled over his words. “You need not fear that I would take liberties or cause strife. All these years she has been the wife of my liege, and I have never said a word. Not … not once. Even though Tyrion never loved her … didn’t make her happy. He trusted me, and I never gave him reason to betray that trust. I loved him, too.”

Aegon stopped, turned the words he had just heard over in his mind. “Loved. You loved him.”

“Yes.”

“Tyrion was always generous with you.”

“Yes.”

“Past tense. Ser Payne,” Aegon said slowly, as realization crystalized in his mind. “What have you done?”

“He was in pain,” Podrick said. “I was his squire. Squires do as they are told.”

 

***

 

Sansa:

Podrick was gone.

Had part of her wondered if there would be a miracle and somehow he would stay? She would have scorned herself for weakness if that was true. Petyr’s voice rang in the back of her mind – just lies, forever and ever, except between you and me. And now he was gone, surely the least she could do was not lie to herself. When Pod had left with Lord Stockworth, to see if Tyrion was awake and wanting visitors as he often did in the dead of the night, she had let him go with her smile never slipping. No songs about us, she had thought.

It was nearing dawn, and although some of the revellers had departed, the Small Hall was still crowded. The reek of sweating, dancing, drinking bodies in thick clothing filled the room like molasses. Servants wheeled in yet another course of food: this was a boar roasted with figs. Guests surrounded the food, cutting portions with their knives and slapping it onto trenchers.

Sansa felt a presence beside her. “My Lady,” Lord Commander Corbray murmured in her ear. “Not too close, for your own protection. Please.”

“What if I am hungry?” she asked, just to see what he would say. 

“I will fetch …”

“Don’t bother,” she cut him off. She felt ill just looking at the food. The only thing she could reliably keep down was apples and tea sweetened with honey, so that was what she was living on. Neither of which were on offer tonight. “If I wanted boar, my handmaid would fetch it.” The woman was Aegon’s as well, as were all her maids these days. On the nights he did not send for them, one of them shared her bed. He watches me even in my sleep.

Three of the kingsguard were close to her, dressed in ordinary clothes and ostensibly off duty, but in truth there to protect Sansa and the life inside her. They had shadowed her all evening, dogging her steps. There were others in the crowd that belonged to Varys, and therefore Aegon, she knew. A lady in a green gown. A serving man collecting empty goblets. And children in the corners, their eyes shining in the torchlight.

The Tyrells were still here, and smiling and speaking together. She saw Margaery lift her slipper to show her husband the sole. The soft leather would likely be worn through, from the way they both laughed. 

She had last seen Jon a bell ago, talking to Davos Seaworth. Most people were exhausted, but Jon’s eyes had still been bright, and his speech crisp. Unnatural resistance to fatigue was a trait he shared with his brother. 

Joy Hill looked beautiful tonight, but then she always did. Sansa watched her enter the room, moving as gracefully as a gazelle, and speak urgently in Martyn Lannister’s ear. 

Aegon had departed earlier, and he had not given any indication that he intended to send for her tonight. She should be relieved, and she was, but it gave her an uneasy feeling. “I get nervous when I don’t know where Aegon is and what he is doing,” Tyrion had told her. Now she understood what he meant.

She doubted that Tyrion had ever truly understood Aegon’s nature, not as it was now. Some evenings she sat with her harp in the corner as her husbands past and present glowered at each other over the cyvasse board. No quarter was given. Even on his best days, Tyrion lost as often as he won, but took it with grace and a glint in his eye that spoke of pride. For his part, Aegon was almost gentle with his dying Hand – he visited daily, using the power of his royal person to keep Tyrion supplied with wine even against the objections of the Grandmaester.

She and Tyrion had spoken – truly spoken – only once since she had fled Harrenhal. It had been the day after she had been brought back. It had been raining, she remembered. The Isle of the Faces had been hidden in mist. The castle smelled of moss, like the massive ruined structure was a living thing. She had spoken to no-one but Brella, and had left the maid to turn away visitors. Her Uncle Edmure had been unceremoniously vanquished, and even Myranda and Margaery in combination had failed to secure entry. Brella had been impressive, Sansa had to admit that. But she had not been able to deny entry to her lady’s husband and lord.

She was sitting on the floor between her bed and the wall, curled up into a ball with her forehead pressed against her knees. She heard the door open and close, quietly, and then the sound of footsteps – clumsy and awkward, closer to waddling than walking. His feet stopped a man’s length away from her. She didn’t look up at him.

“Do you want to talk?”

She said nothing.

“Is there something I can do?”

Nothing, again, and she heard him sigh. _What do you want from me?_ she had wondered, breathing into the fabric of her dress, holding it wrapped tight around her knees. 

He sat down against the wall. There was a clink as he put down a bottle on the stone floor. “Sansa …” He stopped, and there was another long silence between them. “Do you want a drink?”

She drew breath to shriek at Tyrion, and then found herself staring at him, at his mismatched eyes in his ugly twisted face. “Yes,” she said. 

He passed the bottle to her, without a cup. She took it and raised it awkwardly to her lips. The fiery liquor burned down her throat, and she gasped and near-choked on it. After a moment to recover, she took a second swig, then passed the bottle back. “Thank you, my lord,” she said.

Tyrion made no answer, but sat near her as the rain poured down outside. The next day, he was too ill to rise from his bed, and his final decline had begun.

In those days she had moved from Tyrion’s protection to Aegon’s. It had been a strange contrast. Tyrion had been intermittent and unreliable – he had threatened to disinherit Martyn on the spot if anything happened to her, but had made it clear that she would benefit nothing from the Lannister estates. He gave her secure chambers in the Tower of the Hand, but allowed her to be mocked in his hearing without saying a word. Aegon was different. He seemed to want her with him every moment, and chafed at the need to keep up the pretence that she was another man’s wife.

She had not expected life as a truly married woman to be pleasant. It felt like a lifetime since that foolish young girl she had been had ridden south dreaming of pageants and true love. But what she had not expected was for this life to be strange and confusing. 

One night she had dined with Aegon and Tyrion, and had left them drinking together and talking of the realm. She had fallen into her bed in her chambers at the top of the tower. Hours later, in the still of the night, she had woken to find Aegon’s arms embracing her from behind, his body pressed against hers. He said nothing, and showed no indication that he wished to take his pleasure. He just put his hand on her belly, and pressed his face into her neck, burying it in her hair. After a moment, she realized he was crying. She had lain still, and let him do as he wished. _What do you want from me? _she had wondered.__

__And now she stood garbed in silk and jewels, while a thousand strangers swirled around her, and felt more alone than she ever had before, in those times she had sat in silence with her deformed dwarf husband or lay on a bed of feathers with the beautiful king. Now she stood on a dais, as all the couriers pressed around her with their shining eyes._ _

__Then she looked into the crowd, and someone looked back. He was young, with fair skin and dark hair, and he was beautiful, so beautiful that he barely seemed real. The man stood alone. The sight of him sent prickles of fear down her back._ _

___Who are you_ , she wondered._ _

__Corbray was back at her side, a plate of food in his hand. He proffered it. “My lady –“_ _

__The smell hit her nose, and she felt her tummy do a flip. She staggered, and clutched at Corbray’s arm until she had retained some semblance of composure. “Get that away from me,” she told him._ _

__“My Lady … Your Grace. At once.”_ _

__The strange man with dark hair was still watching her. He was closer now. He opened his mouth as if to speak. Curious, she stepped forward, just as someone bumped into her from behind, their elbow colliding sharply with her back. The force of the impact drove her to her knees. She cried out, more in shock and anger than pain. There was dirt from the floor on her palms, and her skirt would likely be soiled. This was a new dress, she thought, irate. Then she had a moment of realization. Nobody should be close enough to me to knock me down._ _

__She rolled over to see the man who had knocked her standing over her. He was nobody she had ever seen before, clad in the rough clothes of a servant. _He is not a servant._ His eyes were a brilliant green. Lannister eyes, Sansa suddenly thought. “Apologies, lady,” he said, stepping forward and extending his hand. “And regards.” There was a flash of steel in his palm._ _

__Terror seized her. Get away, she thought. With a convulsive movement, she scuttled backward. Outside she heard an animal scream – a horse or a dog, she did not know which. The windows of the Hall shuttered as birds beat their bodies against the glass. There was a distant, deep roaring as the dragons rose from their pit. She could not breath. The man was moving towards her._ _

__From the ceiling of the Hall, tiny black-winged bats came pouring down to throw themselves around the man’s head. He slashed at them with his knife, but struck only air. He stepped backward, and then Corbray was on him. The Lord Commander’s sword near cut the man in half at the waist. There was a rain of blood, a chorus of screams, and Sansa collapsed onto the hard stone, half weeping and half laughing in shock._ _

__People were starting to gather around. Marya Seaworth had her arms around Sansa, speaking soft words of concern, her usual shyness forgotten. The woman was aging, her body soft and sagging from years of childbearing, but her voice was full of comfort, and Sansa buried her face in the older woman’s shoulder, feeling nothing but the bitter taste of apples in her mouth._ _

__***_ _

__Some people told of hot hells, some of cold. Others spoke of eternal tortures tailored to the recipient. Jon knew which kind he faced if his life was deemed unworthy by whatever powers would judge him: forever in that damned ballroom._ _

__Outside, the air was clearer, and the scent of flowers mingled with the less savoury odours of the great city. Finally he felt like he could breathe again without the press of people around, looking for favour or attention or simply the status of being seen talking to the prince. He had found himself getting twitchy and paranoid, or looking into the eyes of every serving man or woman, every courtier, and seeing plots. He had been hovering nerviously around Sansa until she snapped at him and suggested that he take a visit to the gardens to calm himself down, or better, a long stroll down a short dock into the Blackwater._ _

__The stables of the Red Keep were like all of the castle – built for a far greater number of mounts than were currently housed there. The empty spaces were full of shadows. Jon saw a few bodies of the stone dead huddled in unused stalls. There had been grooms on duty, but one of them had recognized him, and they had silently left the instant he signalled his wishes. He felt initial satisfaction that things worked out so smoothly, then a wash of discomfort._ _

__His brothers at the Wall, when he had been a man of the Night’s Watch, they obeyed him. But that had been because he was voted to his position. He had been chosen by men who knew him and decided they wanted him as their leader. Here, he had sailed in on a great white dragon, and been hailed a prince. Ygritte would have smacked him in the back of the head. He missed Ygritte. Strangely, as he spent more time in the south, with its scents and colours and tastes, he longed for his long-gone wilding love more than for Daenerys._ _

___What am I doing?_ he wondered. _I’ve sought betrothal with a high-born girl, and here I am meeting a woman in the dead of the night, and the only thing I truly know about her is that she makes the blood pound in my chest. And if I act on my plans for the dragons … What in hell’s name am I doing?__ _

__He turned to go, and ran full on into Elia Sand. She fell down with a gasp of surprise. Jon stepped back, regained his balance, and cursed inelegantly. “I am so sorry,” he said. He felt a flush of mortification creeping up his face. “Are you all right?”_ _

__Elia glared at him and got to her knees, brushing straw and dirt off her rear end. “No thanks to you, you clumsy son of a bitch. Ouch.”_ _

__He stepped back and put his hands up. “Sorry, really.”_ _

__“I wasn’t hurt.” Elia sighed, and leaned back against a wooden wall. She had changed from her elegant robe into shapeless and colourless linen, and she looked younger and smaller. There were dark circles under her eyes. “I wasn’t sure you would come,” she said. “And I hope you weren’t thinking I was offering to fuck you.”_ _

__“It never occurred to me,” Jon lied straight faced, while his brain flashed to complete and utter embarrassment, followed by disappointment, relief, and finally a note of self-doubt. _She wasn’t interested?_ _ _

__There was a quirk to her lips that suggested she saw through him. “Not that I wouldn’t be interested under other circumstances,” she drawled, and there was a flash in her eyes. “But …”_ _

__I cannot let this woman play me like a musical instrument. He held himself still, and let the feelings drain away until he was as cold as the Night’s King. “You came to tell me something.”_ _

__Her smile faded, and she looked down, biting her lip. He crossed the distance between them in a heartbeat, and grabbed her by the upper arms. “Tell me,” he said. “This is the time for you to speak, if you ever will. Stop hiding in the shadows and casting innuendo. Choose, Elia. You knew about Aegon, didn’t you?”_ _

__She faltered, and he felt his heart sink. Then saw the steel in her. “Knew. Of course I knew.” She put her hands on his shoulders and a foot behind one knee. Jon knew the trick and could have stopped her, but he let Elia flip him around so that he was pinned between her and the wall. “But in the beginning he wasn’t half as bad as I was.”_ _

__Jon peeled her hands from his shoulders and held them firmly. “Tell me.”_ _

__“Are we going to slither over each other the entire time?” Elia asked. “It isn’t a short story. And I’m not going to tell you a thing if you don’t let go.”_ _

__Jon released her and stepped back. From the quick glance downwards she gave him, he suspected she gave a moment’s thought to kneeing him in the groin. Just try it, he thought._ _

__She obviously decided against it. “My older sisters, they hated the Starks. For Lyanna, for the first Elia, for the insult to Dorne, for stopping a half-Martell king from taking the throne. I grew up hating them too, but I never thought anything would come of it. It was like a game to me. That was how we lived our lives, the Sand Snakes. Our father taught us to play at life like it was a game, just the way he did – but he was a man and a Prince of Dorne. We are just jokes. Amusements. Nothing we do matters. Or so we like to think.” She shook her head. “And then my father died. It was like the world ended for me. All I could think about was vengeance. A half year later, Aegon Targaryen landed, and I went with Arianne when she rode to meet him.” She laughed, but there was no humour there, no joy. “I was in his bed within the sennight. I was fourteen.”_ _

__Jon winced, and she rolled her eyes. “Isn’t that what hot-blooded Dornish bastard girls do?” she asked. Her eyes were tired and miserable. “Bed any man they wish to, never get attached, never get hurt? Yeah, that’s what I thought. It is what everyone expected of me, so that is what I did. We didn’t have much time together – he took King’s Landing, wed Arianne, and left her with child when he went to the Wall. But I was with him every chance I got. When he returned to the capital, I became his paramour.”_ _

__“Were you in love with him?”_ _

__“He was my whole world. I don’t think Aegon is capable of love, but he does become attached, and he was fond of me in his own way. Three years we were together whenever we could be – and those times …” she shook her head. “We would fuck, and drink, and laugh, and talk … and we hated. We talked about you, with your dragon and your legends, up at the end of the world ignoring us all. And we talked about ways to get revenge for the people we had loved. But I never thought it was real. I never planned to do anything. My mother tried to warn me … Arianne didn’t take it seriously. Tyene and Nym thought it was funny. Those years … I was drinking everything I could get my hands on, stealing drugs from Tyene’s stash, I wasn’t riding horses, or if I was I was riding like a madwoman … In truth, I don’t even know how I spent my time when I wasn’t with him.”_ _

__“So what happened?” Jon asked grimly. He felt an urge to punch something. Even on the Wall, he had seen young fighters go wild like Elia described. Too many of them lost themselves in wine or bad companionship, died in duels or volunteered for dangerous duties that lead them to an early grave. And too often there would be an older soldier ready to take advantage._ _

__And for a woman … a hot-blooded Dornish girl, she had called herself. He had heard how men talked about women, especially bastard born noble girls. They thought to be sexually available to any man who wished them, assumed to be always warm and willing. He thought of the way he had responded to Elia, and he was ashamed of himself. _I’ve been a prince too long_ , he thought. _And before that, a hero, and before that, a man of the Night’s Watch. I forgot what it is like to be low on the heap.__ _

__“You broke free of it.”_ _

__She nodded, looking close to tears. “After my father died … my mother spent some years with Willas Tyrell before he married. They had been close. He and my father and my mother. He was around sometimes when I was growing up. He gave me horses, helped me learn to ride. My mother talked me into going to a tourney, just riding at rings, and he lent me a horse. He was helping me get ready, and I just started going off about you, about the Starks, the Baratheons, the Arryns, the Tullys, the Lannisters, all of damn Westeros. Willas was just listening, helping me adjust straps, so on. Then he asked me if I knew how he had hurt his leg. Of course I did. Then he asked if he should hate me. He was just so matter of fact about it, and I had no idea what to say. He told me that if he had responded to his injury the way I was talking about the Starks, he would have lead an army into Dorne and burned it to the ground. Then he handed me the reigns of the horse he had trained and wished me luck on the field. He didn’t ask me to stop hating with words. But he asked me to stop.”_ _

__“I left. I thought that without my influence, Aegon would be better. Before I went, we talked, and he seemed to agree that it was better … I thought I was making things better by leaving. I thought …”_ _

__“You thought there was hope for him, then.”_ _

__She nodded. “But maybe there wasn’t.”_ _

___Maybe. But maybe, if someone had been there._ Jon thought it, and drew back from the thought like a finger touching a flame. _If I had been there.__ _

__Where had he been when Aegon had landed? He thought back, counting the months and years. His brother had landed sometime in the middle of the first year of the new century. Arianne had been at his side when he took King’s Landing. By then Jon had died in the dark, had lain in the ice cave, had been resurrected. Sansa had been in the Vale, with the shadow of Petyr Baelish over her. Arya was in Braavos, doing things she still refused to confess to him. The Manderlys had Rickon on the way to White Harbour, while Stannis battled the Boltons in the snow._ _

__Dany had come to him as Aegon battled to unify the south and battled the Ironborn. In that year he fought the dead at the Wall, the other Starks had slowly made their way back to the ruins of Winterfell. Sansa had been first, with the Knights of the Vale. Rickon had arrived in triumph at the head of a northern host. Jon had been told how he sat a horse with Shaggydog running alongside, and him only five years old. Arya had appeared on night from the darkness, seemingly alone, but in the weeks to follow hundreds of wolves lead by a great direwolf had hunted the remains of the Bolton forces through the cold night._ _

__He had been bound to the Wall by vows first, and then by dire need. But after that …_ _

__Aegon had sent troops to the Wall before he arrived himself, leading the Golden Company. He was there only a few weeks, during the last terrible battle of the Wall when so many died. After, there had been so much to do, so many wounded, so many forces to get home, the shock of grief and exhaustion. Jon had spoken to his brother, he knew that. He remember a conversation sitting before the fire in Jon’s solar, and how the light had gleamed on Aegon’s pale hair. But what had they said? He couldn’t remember. His brother had left early the next morning, after receiving word on the beginning of the greyscale epidemic in King’s Landing. They had never met again, not until the Eyrie._ _

___What had been the breaking point for Aegon,_ Jon wondered. _When did he move from resentment to a determination to act? Was it Jon Connington’s betrayal, when he concealed his own greyscale and unleashed horror on Westeros? Was it the death of Aegon’s daughter in one of the later outbreaks? Or, and Jon near wept at the thought, had it been when I refused Aegon’s request that I come to King’s Landing, the only thing that Aegon had ever asked of me as his brother? I could have gone. At any time, I could have gone.__ _

__Elia was continuing, her words run-on, and she was fighting a losing battle with her tears. “I was in Essos for years. His letters seemed normal. I didn’t think anything was wrong. I came back, and my sisters said all was well. I didn’t know anything different until Harrenhal. After my joust, I saw him sitting with your cousin, and the way he looked at her …. And she was just smiling at him, without a care in the world … We had an argument at the feast that night. I threatened to go to Arianne, to Willas. He just smiled. He told me I was mad, imagining things. That I was blinded by my past. The next morning she was gone. When they brought her back … the look on her face … I’ve never seen eyes like that. I tried to tell myself it wasn’t him, that maybe nothing had happened. I could have done something. I should have done something.”_ _

__“He raped her. You know that. She’ll never be all right, not after everything she suffered in the war.”_ _

__Elia nodded, tears openly spilling down her cheeks. “When we planned revenge, it was never … that. I swear it. We didn’t take Sansa seriously. You were the one we focused on. You were the threat, the strongest of the Starks.”_ _

___And three years after the war, when Elia left, that would have been a reasonable thing to think. But in the end, it had been Sansa who had been the Stark who was both the greatest threat and the most vulnerable of the Starks, so that was where Aegon had struck._ _ _

___I could have helped in the north. I could have asked why she was so alone, why she never married. I could have asked about her past._ _ _

__“Are you going to kill him?”_ _

__“Yes.”_ _

__“And then what? This isn’t a game, Prince Jon,” she said, her voice harsh. “Do you intend to take the throne?”_ _

__It was a thought he had not consciously allowed himself to have. The throne. I am heir to the throne of Westeros. If Sansa’s child is a girl, a princess, then by the laws of Targaryen inheritance, I take precedence over her by right. But the possibility felt so distant, so unreal, like he was looking through smoky glass._ _

__“I will never take the throne,” he said. “Not if …” and he stopped. There it was, confronting him like the faces of the dead he had once fought. “He is my brother,” Jon said at last. “I will kill him. I must kill him. And then I will be a kinslayer, accursed in the eyes of the Old Gods. How could a man such as that, a man who can plan to do what I plan to do … but I must. What happened to Sansa was my fault. Even Aegon, perhaps he would not have been like this, perhaps if I had … if I hadn’t …”_ _

__She held out her hand to him. He took it, his own shaking, as the enormity of what he had pledged himself to reverberated through him. If I kill him, if I unthrone the rightful king and my own brother, who has done nothing to me, I have lost my honour forever. But I must. “I must do this. But … he is my brother. My blood. And I have failed him, failed them both, failed everyone.” He found himself sliding to his knees in front of Elia, still clutching her hand._ _

__She hesitated, then squeezed his hands. “Less than I did. Maybe we can start from the bottom together.” Then she laughed, and it was a real laugh this time. “But I’m still not planning on fucking you.”_ _

__Jon laughed with her, a bit ruefully. The he stopped as her hands squeezed his. “Jon, I understand that Aegon is dangerous. Who better? I understand how you feel. But I would ask you one question.”_ _

__“What?”_ _

__“The same question Willas asked me.”_ _

_I don’t understand._ But before he could speak, something hit him, surging through the link that bound him to Viserion, blinding him like fire in the darkness. Terror. Convulsive fear. A cry for help. He was on his feet almost as soon as it hit, running as fast as he could for the Small Hall. 


	26. Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Wendy-Nerd and to Tommy for all their help on this chapter!

_Fear._

Jon was running. Running, with stone barely registering under his feet, and the aftershocks of something he had never felt before still reverberating through his mind. The Red Keep not a single building, but a warren of structures large and small. He was a stranger here but he had spent his life in the sprawling castles of Winterfell and Castle Black, and he found himself taking turns and dodging through doorways as the logic of the Holdfast fell into place for him. He could guess where routes for servants had been left, where defences had required that an obvious through-fare would end. And so he found his way to the Small Hall.

He would have thought it would be pandemonium, but the room was near dead silent. Unnaturally silent. Courtiers and servants were standing around in small groups, and if they spoke it was in low whispers. Jon steeled himself and entered the crowd. People cleared his way, but not fast enough. He could feel the breath shuddering in his chest as the after effects of that sense of fear not his own ran through him. He didn’t know if it was that fear or something in himself that made him shrink from the people around him – their hands, their eyes, their curiosity like a living thing.

He needed to get through. He knew that. But if he was going to do it, he had to push his way through all these people.

There could be blades.

Jon felt his breath starting to catch in his throat. _Shit. Not now. No. Everything is depending on me._ He took strength from that thought, and the breath returned to his lungs in a rush. He steeled himself and pushed his way to the place where the crowd was gathered thickest, near the dais at the head of the room.

His heart caught in his throat. There was a dead man on the floor in a pool of red. Ser Corbray was methodically wiping blood from his sword with a rag. Arianne was standing nearby in a column of black and red, her face ashen, with Loreza at her side. Elia glided over – Jon hadn’t even known she was with him – and took Arianne’s other hand. Robter, Garlan, and Davos were all hovering. Jon caught Robter’s eye, and got back only a look of complete confusion that seemed, even with just a look, to be conveyed in swear words. But in the centre of a circle of people was Marya Seaworth, who was sitting on the stone floor holding a pile of blue fabric in her lap. A pile that was shaking with sobs.

Suddenly it was like there was nobody else in the room. He sheathed his dagger – when had he drawn it? -- and crossed the space between them. He knelt by Marya’s side. “Sansa? Sansa, it is Jon. I am here.” He reached out to touch her shoulder.

She just moaned, closed her eyes, and turned her face away. “You’re here? But then you can’t be Jon. Jon’s never here, he never answers. I’m all alone. Everyone’s gone. No, you aren’t Jon.” She moaned. “Petyr, where are you? I’m sorry, I’m sorry, come back. I need you.” Sobs racked her slender frame. “Petyr, please. I’ll be good, I’ll do whatever you ask, just come back.”

Jon felt as if the floor dropped from underneath him and it was like he was falling, trying to catch himself on slippery (icy?) walls. “Sansa, don’t … don’t … I’m here. I’m going to make everything all right again.” He found himself flexing and stretching his right hand, his smooth unscarred hand. “I’m going to fix everything. It will all be just the way it was. Like it never happened, please, just let me --”

“Don’t fret, Your Grace. She’s all right,” Marya said quietly. “Poor thing. The man went for her with a knife. Blessings of the Maiden that she moved at the right time.” There was a murmur around them, and Marya looked up to glare at everyone. “It was a miracle,” she said firmly. “All of it. Shush,” she said to Sansa. “Don’t cry now. You’re safe.”

There had been a day when they were children at Winterfell, Jon remembered suddenly, long before the direwolves and the wars had come into their lives. He and Robb had been playing at swords and heros in the Godswood. Sansa had been no more than five, and he and Robb eight, and she had wanted to play with them, saying she was bored of the nursery with Arya. They refused, and climbed high into the branches of one of the trees where she could not reach them. She had wandered about for a time, calling out for them. Then she had stopped.

“She’s given up,” Robb had said gleefully, punching Jon on the shoulder. Jon punched back, on principle, but only half-heartily. He felt bad.

He had slid down through the branches until he could drop to the ground. It was early summer, that time in the North when all the world seemed green and alive, and the earth had been soft under his feet. He remembered the gentle smell of warm moss, and how the thermal ponds had steamed. He found Sansa sitting beneath the weirwood heart tree, playing quietly by herself. She had found some sticks and leaves, and was building a little house in the earth.

As he came closer she had looked up and when she saw him she smiled. “Jon, come and look at what I am making!” she had called out. And he did.

 _What had happened to him,_ Jon wondered. _What happened to that boy who felt bad when his little sister walked away to play alone?_

He slid an arm underneath his sister, taking her from Marya’s arms, and picked her up. She was limp, neither aiding him nor resisting, like she had gone somewhere else entirely. She was like a child in his arms, like Ghost had been as a tiny pup when Jon had taken him from the cold snows and held him warm against his chest. The court was still silent as Jon carried her from the room.

***

Sansa:

She shifted in Jon’s arms. As a girl she had dreamed of being carried from peril by a man. It had always sounded dramatic and heroic in Old Nan’s stories. The tales had neglected to mention that even a slender woman was heavy when carried for more than a few minutes. Clearly, and mortifyingly, Jon was finding it hard to carry her. The silk of her dress was slipping through his hands so that he kept having to heft her up, and she could feel that he was soaked with clammy sweat. She could feel that he was going up stairs, and every step jolted her.

“You can put me down,” she told him. “I can walk.”

“It is no trouble. You are so thin – you need to eat.”

 _Thank you for that brilliant observation._ She was sick of being told she needed to eat, of trying for force herself to do one thing or another.

She opened her eyes, and found that they were in the Tower of the Hand. Clearly, she was being taken back to her chambers to lie down like a good girl. _No, you are being unkind_ , she told herself in a voice that echoed of Septa Mordane. _Jon is here to help me. I must be grateful._

She was tired of being grateful.

“Please, Jon, put me down.” He gently set her feet to the floor on the landing. It was strange, she thought, but Jon was gentle. He always had been as a boy, and some fragment of that had survived the wars and horrors he had seen. For a moment she let herself rest against him. No, she thought. I cannot. I cannot be weak, not now. I cannot trust Jon to help me. She pushed herself away from him, and looked about.

The Tower should be busy, even at this time of night, with servants on the stairs. Instead, the place was silent. She looked at the crack under the door to Tyrion’s rooms, and saw it was dark. She frowned. Tyrion liked a light burning, even in his sleep. He said he had seen enough of darkness.

She turned away from Jon, and pushed the door open. There was a candle by the door, and she lit it from one of the torches on the landing. It cast flickering light through her as she moved through the rooms. “Tyion?” she said softly. But the couch where he slept most nights was empty.

It was the glowing embers of a dying fire in the Hand’s bedchamber that showed her the way. He was slumped in a chair, looking barely larger than the cushions he was nestled among. His head rested on his chest. When she pushed it back, his eyes were open and staring, the muscles in his face slack. It was not a pretty picture, but Sansa had seen enough death not to expect that.

She stepped back, staring at Tyrion. _Dead. Dead._ “Dead. He’s dead.”

Jon was there, beside her, and suddenly he took her arm. “Sansa, let me take care of this. You don’t need to see this.”

She pushed his hand away. “Don’t tell me what I need. What do you know of what I need? What—“ Then her eyes fell on Tyion’s hand, and the bottle clutched in his fingers. Jon tried to stop her, but she pulled it free, and stared at the powerful opiate painkillers that the Grand Maester had made her promise to keep locked away. “No,” she said. “No, that’s forbidden by the Seven.”

“He wasn’t a very religious man,” Jon said. He was using what she thought of as his ‘Lord Commander’ voice, when he thought that he was in the right and nobody should be arguing with him. He took the bottle from Sansa’s hands. “You should go and sit down in the solar, you’ve had a shock—“

“Stop speaking to me as if I am a child and I don’t know what is going on. Tonight, a man tried to kill me,” she said. “He tried to kill me. He tried to kill me and he tried to kill my baby.”

“That isn’t all – Sansa, what happened in the Hall while I was gone? I felt something.”

She turned away. _Of all things to come out of tonight,_ she thought miserably. _I’m not ready._ Jon did not look as if he was going to be easily dissuaded. _How do I explain what happened tonight, when I do not even understand it myself? Why am I always explaining, always managing, always accommodating?_

She turned to the window, where the lights of King’s Landing spread out before her like a constellation of stars. She had seen those lights from high above, through the eyes of night-flying birds, when she had taken the rare, precious chances and slipped from her body into the only form of escape left to her. But every time she had been terrified of being caught, of waking to the accusing eyes of her bedmaid, or of Aegon himself. Sometimes, though, the temptation was overwhelming, to slip free of her body. It was seductive, it was marvellous.

In those first moons back at Winterfell, when she and Arya and Rickon had been together in the ruins, she remembered watching her siblings with their wolves. Shaggydog never went far from Rickon, and he had done much to keep Winterfell’s residents in meat. Nymeria had taken her great pack to the Wall, to aid in the battles there, but after she had returned and patrolled the lands around the ruined castle. One night, Sansa had found Rickon and Arya curled up together in a bed piled high with furs, neither of them asleep. Instead, they both had wide eyes staring at nothing, and they did not answer when she spoke to them. She had gone to the window, and had seen Shaggydog and Nymeria running away across the snowcovered fields under the moonlight. For all that she had suffered in her years away, that night had been the first time that she had thought of herself as something broken.

When she had first flown, even in those terrible days of riding with Joram, the thought had comforted her. _I don't want to be broken anymore._ She looked out at the lights of the city. _I have an escape, from this life, from the prison my body has become._ And in that moment, she felt like she was on the verge of taking wing, like there was nothing more than the finest of silken threads holding her back.

There were voices in the room. When had others entered? Who was it? Were they a threat to her? She didn’t know, couldn’t muster the will to turn away from the lights. _What kind of mother am I,_ she wondered, _if I cannot find the strength to fight this new threat to my child? But I am so tired, so hopelessly tired. I cannot bear it any more._

Sansa felt something on her arm, less the touch of a hand than the feeling of a breath of wind. She turned her head, and found that a man with dark hair was sitting next to her on the window seat. He was just watching her, silent.

“I saw you in the Hall,” she said. She supposed she should be afraid, but she felt detached, numb with exhaustion. There was no more room in her for fear.

"I know,” the man said. “I didn’t expect that. It was not my intention to interfere, if that is even possible. The power to look into the past is not a simple thing, even for one with the power of greenseer and the blood of old Valyria. So much knowledge has been lost."

“The past …” her breath caught. “Your past? Are you my son?” _My son. So beautiful. And alive. To be born safe. One of her burdens eased. I am not killing my child with my own misery and fear, strangling it in the womb._

“I am. Or perhaps from your point of view, I am the possibility of what your son will become.” His eyes were sad. They were violet – his father’s eyes with the long lashes that made them look dark, but he had his grandfather’s dark hair and there was something of Eddard Stark in him – a gentleness that near made her want to weep. She looked back at the lights.

“Mother, there are people who would help you.”

_Too late. I wouldn't know how to accept help, and the time has passed for a hero in my story._

“Mother, don’t …”

She heard it as if from a great distance, but she was too weary. Sansa closed her eyes, and slipped away from her prison.

***

Aegon:

He and Arianne did not speak as they left their Kingsguard on the landing, and entered the chambers of the Hand. He had already told her that there was little doubt about what to expect -- Podrick had confessed everything to him. When they entered the bedchamber, he found Sansa and Jon already there, at opposite ends of the room, Tyrion’s body between them. Sansa was sitting on the window bench, staring out at the lights of the city. Jon was building up the fire.

Arianne stayed in the shadows by the door, letting Aegon deal with the situation.

“He’s dead?” Aegon asked his brother.

Jon nodded. “By his own act.”

It seemed to Aegon like his life had been nothing but death since the day he had set foot on Westeros. He stared at the corpse of the man who had set him on that path, who had walked it with him these last seven years. Jon reached out and closed Tyrion’s eyes. He did it assuredly. Jon had seen as much death as Aegon.

“He was a good man,” his brother said. “He travelled to the Wall with me when I joined the Night’s Watch. He tried to be kind.”

“You barely knew him. Don’t talk like you did.” Aegon turned away, poured himself a cup of Tyrions’ wine, and downed most of it in a single swallow. By the door, Arianne’s face was hard, but she was openly allowing tears to run down her cheeks. He loved her for that.

By contrast, he had seen that Sansa’s eyes were dry. Aegon felt back a surge of anger. _You could have been his wife in truth,_ he thought. _He wanted to be good to you, once. Would that have been too hard, to give him some little bit of affection?_

“My Queen wanted to assure you that she had nothing to do with the attack. I’ve spoken to her, and I believe her.”

Jon looked like someone had poured fireants down his breeches. He looked from Sansa to Arianne. “You know how this looks,” he said to Aegon. “I was not there for the attack, I don’t know what happened. But who was to gain?"

Aegon sighed. “Sadly, I think I may have outsmarted myself. Varys has agents in the household of Martyn Lannister. I’ve sent him to make inquiries. He would have no reason to move against a child of mine, but we have concealed the relationship so carefully that he may have had no reason to suspect my involvement.”

“Involvement. What a delicate word.”

“The point is,” Arianne broke in. “Lady Sansa’s pregnancy,” her face twisted as she said it, “is less easy to conceal. The symptoms are obvious enough when one begins to suspect. They may also have had a spy in the household.” Her gaze was level and fearless. “I know that you may think I was involved, but I truly had nothing to gain. I have been corresponding by raven with my brother in Dorne. He will likely agree to our being co-rulers of the kingdom, on the condition that I do not remarry and that his son will be the heir. I agree to the dissolution of marriage on grounds of infertility and depart King’s Landing voluntarily and in peace. The way is open for Aegon and Sansa to marry openly in the Sept.” She paused and looked at Sansa. Her voice gentled. “If that is the lady’s desire.”

"That would be most generous,” Jon said.

“Not at all. I fully expect that the North, the Crownlands, and all regions under your influence will be generous with trade agreements in Dorne’s favour. We are giving up the possibility of another King of Dornish blood, and preserving the honour of the North. In return, you will make sure I do not return to Dorne and my brother empty handed.”

Jon swallowed visibly. “The North is not rich in coin these days, but we can discuss your terms.”

Aegon took a swallow of wine. “Drink,” he told Jon and Arianne. “I don’t want to drink alone, and we cannot leave this fine vintage to Martyn Lannister. Pompous idiot: he wouldn’t know the difference between this and horse piss. We are all family now. Speaking of which, we haven’t discussed the subject of dowry.”

It was highly amusing, watching Jon’s head swivel around towards him like a toymaker’s puppet. “You cannot be serious. You actually expect to be paid for what you have done?”

“Well, I am more than happy to pay Sansa the customary dower on the morning after official consummation, for the use of her body, as the documents always say.”

Jon flinched.

“However,” Aegon continued. “It is customary for a noblewoman’s family to give her husband a dowry, and for her to bring household items to the marriage: furniture, clothing she hasn’t embroidered herself, jewels that aren’t mostly glass, then there is maintenance …”

“Pay it yourself.”

_Excellent._

Aegon waited to see if Sansa was going to bite, but she just sat down on the window seat and continued to stare out at the lights. She clearly needed more of a push.

“Oh, I admit that there is precedent in cases where the marriage follows adultery or abduction—, but as far as most people in Westeros know, our marriage is nothing but honourable and proper. Surely you would not want people to know differently?”

Aegon waited for an explosion. It came, but not from the expected direction.

"What is the matter with you?” Arianne asked sharply.

“Thank you,” Jon started to say, with a look of relief on his face.

“I was speaking to both of you. Prince Jon, I am not going to ask where in the Seven Hells you were tonight when a man tried to kill your sister, because I know precisely where in the Seven Hells you were.” Jon looked stunned, and suddenly shaken. Arianne’s dark eyes flashed. “I am not as much of a fool as my cousin Elia thinks I am, nor is she as wise now as she thinks she is. What were you thinking? Or were you thinking at all? There was a time that I played the Game of Thrones like a drunkard rolling dice, and I was not the one to pay the price.”

Jon’s face was ashen.

Aegon was fighting back laughter when Arianne turned on him. He abruptly sobered. His Queen had always been passionate, firm in her convictions, and fearless in speaking her mind when she thought it necessary. He had never seen her like this. Before now, she always had something to lose. Now she doesn’t. He found himself taking a step back. “Careful,” he warned her.

“You need my support more than you think, cousin,” she spat. “Dorne existed before the Targaryens came to this land. We will be here long after. Unbent. Unbowed. Unbroken. Do not push me. You will escort me to Summerhall to meet with my brother, and there you will grant me honours and titles before I agree to surrender my position as Queen.” She turned her glare on Jon. “And the trade concessions that you will be agreeing to will in no way diminish the dowry that your sister is owed. You will not humiliate her any further in the eyes of Westeros by denying her If the bonds of kinship and tradition were not enough, then she is owed that. She rebuilt the North while the rest of the Starks did nothing. Everyone knows that it was Lady Sansa.”

There was a moment of silence, and then a moment where they all looked to each other, and then to the window. Jon was across the room in a heartbeat, catching Sansa’s face in his hands. Aegon took a sharp breath. Her face was lifeless, her eyes white and staring. Jon shook her, gently, but his face was stricken. “This isn’t right,” he said.

“Is she breathing?” Aegon gasped. The child, he thought, and then the image of his daughter’s face swam before his eyes.

Arianne hurried to Jon’s side, and produced a small mirror which she held to Sansa’s lips. A mist of breath appeared, a breath of life.

Jon gathered her into his arms. “Oh, Sansa, no. No. I’m sorry. I’ve done everything wrong. Come back. I’ll make it better, I promise.”

But there was no response, no sound in the room but the wind outside. Aegon looked at Tyrion’s body, slumped forgotten in front of the fire, and it seems as if the dead Hand was laughing at all of them.


	27. The Climb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to WendyNerd for beta reading, and putting up with me!

Rain was pouring over King’s Landing in a steady torrent, day and night. The streets were mud and rivers, with bogged carts and struggling beasts of burden blocking the wayfares. The empty homes, housing nothing but the stone dead, loomed out of the mist with dark windows like eyes that watched, and doors like mouths ready to offer accusations. The mist was thick, and from the streets the great buildings that loomed above the city – the Great Sept, the ruined Dragonpit, the Red Keep – were invisible. There was only the city and the people.

Jon pulled his sodden cloak tighter around himself, but he need not have worried. There were few enough people about. Those who were kept their heads down and hurried to reach shelter. They had no interest in the stranger with the long face and the shabby black cloak. He ducked down a side alley and around a corner, making for a shop with a red light in the window. A hand grasped his arm and he stopped. 

“Alms? Kind man, spare alms?” He could not see the woman’s face, but her voice sounded old. 

He fumbled at his belt pouch, and pressed some coins into her hands. They were enough to keep a body in food and lodgings for a week or so. Too much, he knew that. 

She looked at the coins, and raised her face. Jon had an impression of lined skin and a scar that cut across one cheek and ended in an empty eye socket. “Bless you, blessings of the Mother for your mercy. Prayers for your soul. Crone raise her lantern,” she chanted. “Crone show you the path. Crone give you the strength to walk it.”

Jon nodded, embarrassed, and went to move on. She grabbed his arm. “May the Warrior lend you strength and keep you from harm. Blessings.”

He stopped and shook his head. The rain dripped from his hair down his neck and into the folds of his cloak to run down his back. He felt sticky and uncomfortably warm. “Goodwife, thank you for your prayers, but I do not follow the Seven.”

The woman coughed. Her face convulsed in sudden dismay, and she looked at the coins. She hesitated. In a voice suddenly less polished, and even older sounding than before, she said, “You do not worship that Red God?” She looked back at the coins. 

“No,” Jon said hastily. “No, I am of the north. I follow the old ways.” The Faith might have no love for those who worshiped as he did, but they did not hold them anathema. 

The woman nodded abruptly, her relief clear. “Thanks, ser. And blessings…” she paused, uncertainly, then finished, “Blessings. May your gods aid you …” Again she paused, clearly uncertain as to what acts the Northman’s strange gods might perform for their believers.

Jon rescued her. “Thanks to you. Please, get yourself out of this rain.” When she had vanished down the street, he pulled his boots free of the mud and made his way across the street. 

The followers of R’hllor had multiplied in the years of war, as people turned away from the Faith that had not protected them. At the same time, many of the followers of the Faith had become fanatics, obsessed with maintaining the purity of their religion against interlopers. The streets of King’s Landing had become a battlefield far too often. The simmering conflict had reached near every part of the realm, with the exception of the Stormlands. Shireen Baratheon repressed zealotry of any form with an iron fist and the followers of R’hllor were banned from her lands. Barely more than a child when she took the rulership of Storm’s End, the Grey Lady had seen enough of the fire to last her a lifetime. Jon wished that it was possible to assert her rules here in the city.

He shook his head, dispelling his gloomy thoughts, and stepped through the door. “Is this Tall Tom’s bakery?” he called, half blind as he wiped the moisture from his eyes.

“That’s me, if you weren’t sure,” a genial voice answered. As Jon regained his sight, he found an older man watching him, a smile of amusement on his red face. The baker must have been near seven feet in height – his head near brushed the rafters of his shop. 

“I guess I do have the right place,” Jon said. “I’m told you hale from the North.”

“That I do,” the man agreed. “The Barrowlands were my home, before the war and the winter drove me and mine out.” He extended a hand double the size of Jon’s own, and Jon grasped it. The baker’s grip was like iron, his hand and forearm heavily muscled from kneading bread. “Always good to meet a countryman. What can I do you for?”

“I was looking for oatcakes. Proper northern oatcakes, if you have them. The ones that come from these southern kitchens are fine, but they don’t taste the same.”

“That I do. Have them, that is.”

There was a choice of oatcakes: plain, with raisins, or with cranberries. Tall Tom broke off a piece for Jon to try. The cake was warm and crisp, and for a moment he felt the stone of Winterfell around him and heard Robb’s laugh. Real oatcakes, not the stuff that every baker they had spoken to had promised. Not airy confections of sugar and fine-milled flour. “It’s … good,” he said, blinking back tears. “Perfect.”

The baker nodded. “Not a few northmen in Kings Landing these days, hankering for a taste of home. I’m fond of those oatcakes myself.”

“These are for my kinswoman. She’s a long way from home, and she has been ill.” Jon paid and watched as the man wrapped the cakes. “What brought you south?” he asked, curious.

“I had an Inn on the Kingsroad. The Boltons burned it down at the beginning of winter. We were luckier than some. Made it to White Harbour, and kept enough coin to get passage south. The ship was so packed with Northerners that it near sank by the Sisters, but we made it here with nothing but the clothes on our backs. Northern refugees did all the dirty jobs in King’s Landing during the winter.” The man looked around his warm little shop, his eyes sad. “There’s no few like me in this city.”

Jon shivered, thinking that this was one of the better stories he had heard from the smallfolk of the north. So many small settlements had vanished completely, their inhabitants starved or massacred. So many people had come to the Wall when the truth of the threat became apparent, to fight hopeless battles and die. 

“You didn’t think about going back?” he asked the baker. 

“A thousand times, but we never had the coin. Northmen belong in the North.” Tall Tom hesitated. “And so do the women. I served Lord Eddard with my own hands when he rode south with Robert Barathon, and his girls too.” He pressed the package into Jon’s hands. To his surprise, Jon felt the hard shape of a small pot. “That’s good northern quince paste, for the lady. I won’t say no word where I shouldn’t, but I know the look of a son of Winterfell when I see one, m’lord. And if the rumours are true … and right isn’t done … the North Remembers.”

Jon kept his face impassive, and gave a nod of acknowledgement. He was out in the rain again, the heavy door swinging closed behind him, before he let out a long, slow, breath. For all that the rain was warm, he felt a chill. 

King’s Landing felt like it was about to catch flame. Robter had told him of secret meetings of the followers of R'hllor, held in deserted houses. There was unrest amongst the Dornishfolk in the capital since the rumours that Arianne was being put aside. The men of the Westerlands had briefly rioted when Martyn Lannister had been arrested for attempted murder, and had been brutally put down by the Gold Cloaks. 

And day after day, Sansa sat in her tower chamber and gazed out the window. 

The rain was running down his face; Jon wiped the droplets from his cheeks. His boots had sunk into the mud – he pulled them free with a sucking sound, and slogged his way down the street. There were cobblestones somewhere under the mud, he knew, but this neighbourhood was one of the lowest points of the city, and everything washed downwards. Much of what he was wading through was likely not mud, he thought, and then wished he hadn’t.

He felt a prickle in the back of his neck, and knew that he was being watched. He touched the hilt of Dark Sister, and felt the reassuring presence of steel from the daggers he had at each wrist, and others hidden about his person. Men in this part of the city might kill for his boots. Jon relaxed, and waited to see if they chose to attack. He hoped they didn’t: he was no green boy to believe that he would always walk away from a fight unharmed. 

Nothing happened. The unseen watchers clearly decided to move on. Idly, Jon wondered why. He knew the value of good boots. 

At a crossroad, he hesitated, then detoured to follow the path of the proposed sewer. The council had balked at his suggestion that it was essential to lay down both a sewer and a storm drain at the same time – all but Davos Seaworth, who had actually lived in the lower parts of Kings Landing. Jon wished he could take them all up the base of the Wall on a hot day so that they could see the effects of run off first hand. He had sent to Jorah asking for the loan of a couple of builders, but it would be weeks for his letter to arrive, and even with good winds on the sail south, most than a moon before a ship could make the journey from Eastwatch.

He thought, achingly, of Winterfell, of its strong walls and loyal folk. He wished they could flee back there, he and Sansa, to the comfort of the warm pools and heated walls, to the light of the glass gardens and the cool of the crypts. 

_But if I am wishing, why not wish that we could go back in time, to the Winterfell of our youths?_ he thought, as he stepped over a murky puddle and dodged a septon’s liter. _Why not wish for Ser Rodrick and Maester Luwin to advise me, for Old Nan to spin her stories and for Jory to stand guard, keeping us all safe. Even Septa Mordane, with her pinched face and facile judgements, little sweet natured Beth Cassels, Mikken laughing as he hammered on his forge. I want them all back._

Jon crossed Aegon’s Way, which ran from the central square to the Iron Gate by the Bay. The wind blowing straight off the water blew his cloak open. He struggled with the wet wool. A carter bringing a load of firewood into the city cursed at him when Jon stopped to struggle with the drenched wool, but the man held his horses until Jon had passed. 

Aegon’s Way, Jon thought. Above him was Aegon’s high hill, in Aegon’s city. The conqueror, the first of the Aegons to rule Westeros. Jon’s ancestor. When Howland Reed had told them the truth, on a bleak night in a break from the fighting, Daenerys had wept and embraced him. Jon had forced himself to return her smile. 

But one thought had reverberated through his mind. _It was all a lie._ The only truth in his life was that he was a bastard. And his mother: he imagined what it would have been like to have spoken to people who had known her as a girl. When he was able to return to Winterfell, they were all gone, and all he had been able to do was leave flowers in front of a stone image. He had hidden behind that statute as a boy, covered in flour to make himself white and lying in wait for Robb to bring Arya, Sansa, and Bran past. _She was my mother,_ he thought. _All those years I wondered and dreamed what she might have been like, and I never knew that I was playing around her bones. And I never knew because of a lie._

_Ned Stark lied. He was never my father. For all his claims of honour, he lied. He lied to me, he lied to his Lady Wife, and he lied to his children._

He slipped in the wet mud, and found himself on his hands and knees by the side of the road. He cursed himself. After half a life on the Wall, he should be better at keeping his footing. Fortunately, this neighbourhood was higher, and the mud was not as deep. His breeches were not in good shape, but then they hadn’t been before. Lucion was unlikely to let Jon back into his quarters. 

He left the broad expanse of Aegon’s Way and went back to the narrow warren of streets. Soon he was climbing, as the streets began to slope up the hill. 

He had to stop and stand by the side of the street as a noble party rode down from the Keep. He counted two dozen knights and men at arms riding escort. In the front was Garlan Tyrell and his wife Leonette, and Margaery and her husband. They were beautiful and smiling as they rode, but Jon was splashed in their passage although he had taken care to stand well aside. They never even looked at him. 

The more he learned of the Tyrells, the less he trusted them. The family might disagree behind closed doors, but in public they acted as one, always, Sam had told him, and they did nothing without benefit to themselves. Still, they had already proved their value. Aegon liked Garlan – everyone did – and Garlan had lent his voice to Jon’s when he insisted that Aegon stay away from Sansa until she was better. When the Dornish courtiers had harassed some of the few Vale and Riverlands nobles at court, Margaery had unleashed the Tyrell hordes in retaliation.

And what plans might they be hatching? Jon was not sure, and he suspected that Margaery had told him the truth when she said that Willas was the head of the family, the one they all obeyed since Olenna died. The Lord of Highgarden had yet to make an appearance at court, and his motivations and methods were a mystery. Jon didn’t like mysteries. Too often they resulted in the use of weapons.

But Jon needed the Tyrells, or at least needed them not to be openly in opposition to him, now more than ever. The Martells were tied to Aegon by blood, and now that Aegon had reached tentative accord with Arianne, they were unlikely to turn against him. Shireen kept to her windswept fortress in the Storm Lands and took little part in the affairs of the realm, but Jon knew that if pushed, she would be loath to go against her vow to support the Targaryen King. She was her father’s daughter.

The Lannisters were a spent force if Martyn lost his trial, as seemed likely. Jon mentally shook his head at the madness of the man. He and Joy had been brought before Aegon, accused of conspiring to kill Sansa. The case against them seemed ironclad – the servants who carried out their orders broke easily enough under questioning in the dungeons below the Black Cells. 

But Martyn demanded a trial by combat, and declared he would stand champion for both himself and for his lady cousin. As the septons would not allow him to fight for Joy before his own innocence was established, he had announced he would take on both champions single handed. It was dramatic, impressive, and Jon suspected it would ultimately be futile. Even an excellent swordsman could fall foul of multiple opponents. Aegon had named two of the Kingsguard (the two who had been on duty when Sansa had been attacked). The men might have their failings as guards, but they were unlikely to be utterly incompetent fighters. 

Jon reminded himself that even if Martyn was a vain fool, he was a Lannister and guilty of conspiring to kill Sansa, and he deserved what he got.

 _He’s prepared to die to defend Joy._

He reached the top of the hill at the noon bells, and found Robter was waiting for him in a sheltered space near the Walls. “You found what you were looking for?” he asked. 

Jon held up the packet in mute reply.

“Fucking oatcakes. What, are they made with magic oats from the lands beyond the Wall?” Robter shook his head. “When you arrived here, it was like you had fireants chewing on your nuts,” he groused. “Now you are buying baked goods. What happened to you?”

“Did I accomplish anything?” 

Robter looked like he was about to explode. “Of course you did! You figured it all out, all on your own! Then, you had a plan, a good plan, a simple plan. Kill the villain. What’s wrong with that?” 

“I realized it wasn’t that simple.”

“Hell, it ought to be.” Robter heaved a sigh. “I’m just sick of this shit,” he said in a smaller voice, and for a moment he looked smaller, too. “Can’t anything be right in this world?” 

“Maybe when we figure out how to get there without doing wrong on the way.”

“You mean, like not sneaking off to fuck some girl while your sister is in a ballroom with a bunch of unscrupulous people who’d like to see her dead? Deep thought. Profound.”

Jon felt his stomach flip and he struggled to keep his face impassive. He laid awake every night going over what had happened, and had come no closer to understanding. No, he corrected himself, not what had happened. What he had done.

It had made sense at the time, or so he had told himself. Elia clearly knew something, and he had to explore every option, seek out every potential ally. He had learned things. But I didn’t have to do it then. 

_I believed in the Kingsguard. There were three of them protecting her. I thought they were the greatest knights in the realm. I assumed they were. But I was thinking like that boy who loved stories and who imagined a south of chivalry and honour._

The truth, he had learned, was that Aegon’s Kingsguard was as makeshift as anything else in Westeros these days. Knights of skill and honour had been the leaders in the battles in the War of the Five Kings, and then later against the Ironborn, the Boltons, even against the Golden Company. Those who had survived those battles had ridden against the Others, and died like flies. Corbray was the only one of the bunch with a record of great deeds in battle. He survived the early wars because Lysa Arryn kept the Vale out of the fighting, and the later battles because he protested his cousin Lyn’s mistreatment of a young boy, leading to his imprisonment on false charges of theft. The others were hedge knights, and not the worthy type. Cowards and fools, Jon thought bitterly. And I left her there with them. 

He had thought she was guarded not just by the Kingsguard, but by Aegon and Varys. _My brother, who raped her, who hatches and discards plots because he is bored,_ Jon thought bitterly, _and the Spider who plays games no one but himself understands._ He wondered if Varys had truly been unaware of the Lannister plan, or if he had chosen to let it unfold. 

And the truth had been that Jon had met with Elia because he had wanted her. _I like to think of myself as better than other men. Not subject to the same lusts, the same weaknesses. Above that. When the brothers of the Night’s Watch visited the Mole Town brothels I looked down on them. I loved a great Queen and a free wildling girl and I pretended that I wasn’t a weak, venial fool. I thought I was Ned Stark. Maybe I was Rhaegar Targaryen._

_But I was so tired of always being the perfect hero. I wanted to be the ordinary man who could sneak off to the stables with a pretty woman, and not have the world collapse._

“You’re brooding again.” Robter said. “I can tell because you’re making that brooding face. Or maybe you need to piss?”

“I’m just thinking. Not brooding, thinking. I need to get Sansa better.” He took a breath, feeling sick. “Then I have to marry my half-mad sister to her raper. And then I can figure out what to do.” He let out a heavy sigh. “At least before, I could say this is what she wanted. Now, I don’t even know. What happens if I kill Aegon? What becomes of Westeros? But if I don’t, what kind of world is this? What, I should let that bastard get away with what he has done because he is good at counting and I need every man I can get?”

Robter gave Jon a sharp look. “Aegon’s not that good at counting.”

Jon stopped shy of a deep puddle, its waters near black in the shadow of the castle walls. Its surface was dappled with the rain, but he could not tell how deep it was. He stepped carefully around it. “He shouldn’t be able to escape the consequences of what he has done. Not just because he is a good administrator.”

“And what happens to your sister and her babe if he dies?” Robter asked. “I’m not arguing, you know how I feel. I don’t want another Aerys starting a slow descent into madness.”

“Is he mad?”

“I don’t know. But I do know that those dragons the two of you ride are getting bigger year by year.” He grabbed Jon’s shoulder. “What is your plan for that beast? Or do you just fly off and leave the rest of us to be burnt to death any time the King wishes it?”

Jon shook his head. “I don’t know. I hope to make contact with Bran—“

“That’s it? You hope?”

Jon felt a wave of panicked anger. “What should I do then? What do you suggest? Tell me that! Tell me the perfect solution, and I will do that.” He shook his head, and sighed. _I can’t afford to antagonize my only ally in the Keep._ “I’m sorry.” 

Robter was silent as they came to the gate. He showed his face to the guards, and they waived the two of them through the gates. Inside, they slipped across the stables unnoticed, and then took a narrow winding servant’s staircase upwards. There were open window slits to let in light, and the rain had even crept in here, running in rivulets down the spiral stairs. Jon glumly wondered how many battles had been fought on these steps, and how many times blood had run down in place of the water. He said as much to Robter as they trudged upwards.

“Thanks for that thought, you gloomy shit.” 

They stepped aside for a serving maid carrying a heavy tray. The girl sniffed the air as she passed them, and then gave Jon a look of dismay and disgust. He pulled his cloak tighter about himself, suddenly self-conscious of the odour coming from his clothes. 

“He’s all right,” Robter said. 

The maid curtsied, still holding the heavy tray. “I meant no disrespect, Lord Storm.” 

They reached the top of the steps and paused for breath. An arched window looked out onto nothing but grey mist and cloud. “Thanks,” Jon said. “I thought she was going to call the guards on me.” 

“What are friends for?”

The master of coin said it so casually that Jon almost missed it. Then what Robter had said settled into his mind. Jon turned the strange thought over in his mind. “Is that what we are?”

There was a flash of uncertainty in Robter’s eyes, but he smiled. “Sure. Don’t get all mushy on me, for fucks sake, but I’m your friend. If you don’t consider yourself too good to hang with a bastard.”

“Well, they do say that bastards are treacherous, fickle, born of lust and deceit. Or so I’ve been told.”

“Yeah, don’t turn your back on me.” Robter’s smile faded. “You could use a friend or two. A good one.”

“I’ve had good friends.” _Brothers._ “I just didn’t do enough to keep them.”

“A good friend will meet you half way on that.” Robter clouted Jon on the shoulder. “Go on. Good luck with your sister.”

In his quarters, Jon changed his sodden clothes for raiment appropriate for a prince. Lucion had everything laid out and whisked the dirty clothes away smoothly, but had forgotten the shirt. He replied to Jon’s query about whether everything was all right with a calm positive that made it clear further questions were unwelcome.

Carrying his oatcakes on an engraved silver plate, Jon met Marya Seaworth at the entrance to what had been the Tower of the Hand. “How is she?” he asked.

“The same,” Marya said. “She took a bit of broth this morning, and slices of apples, but she wouldn’t drink her milk. A woman with child needs milk, or the babe will suck the strength from her bones.” She shook her head dolefully. Davos’ wife was still shy around most nobles, but she had come to the comradery of the sickbed with Jon. 

“It takes time,” Jon said. “We need to coax her back.”

“How do we do that in this place?” Marya asked, her plump face creased in a frown of dismay. “The King tried to come and see her earlier. Davos talked him out of it, but …”

“I will speak to Aegon,” Jon said. _She’s right,_ he thought, as he passed Tyrion’s quarters. They were empty now, the furnishings stripped and carted away. Some possessions had been distributed according to his will: a brothel keeper called Alayaya had received his priceless library. Other things had vanished into the hands of various Lannister lackies. Even if Martyn survived his trial, Jon doubted that he would recover much of Tyrion’s household goods.

_I need to get Sansa away from King’s Landing, even just temporarily. I need to get her away from Aegon. If she continues like she is … even if she comes to term healthy, can a woman in this condition birth a child, or might she just slip away from the pain? This could mean her life._

The stairs grew narrower as he climbed, the walls closing in on him. The tower was well built and dry, but he could feel gusts of air blowing through every crevace. He reached the door at the top of the tower. He knocked, received no reply, and eased the door open. 

“Hello Sansa,” he said gently.

She sat in a deep cushioned chair by a banked fire. There was an embroidery frame in her lap, with a steel needle stuck through the silk, but she made no effort to work on it. Her blue eyes were wide and staring at nothing. The maids had garbed her in blue silk and her hair was dressed with golden wire. She was beautiful and as lifeless as a doll.

“I brought you some oatcakes. Real ones, like they made back home. Nothing like that baker in the kitchens here produced.” He put them on a little table beside her. For a moment she looked at him, and then looked away and her eyes went distant. But she did look, and that was a good sign. The smell of Tall Tom’s cakes filled the room, and Jon blessed the man in his mind.

He took a letter from his pocket. It was stained and creased with travel. Not surprising, given that it had travelled to the Wall and back. It bore the broken seal of the direwolf ringed in lies. “This came today. It is your letter from Harrenhal. It found me at last.” He turned it in his hands. “Did you truly not want me to come? Did you mean what you said? If I had received this, I would have come south twice as fast.” 

He half laughed. “We have never been very good at talking to each other. By the Old Gods, that’s an understatement.” He took her hands in his. “We never talked,” he said. “I never asked what you wanted, not even after I knew the truth. But I’m here now. Talk to me. Please.”

But she gave him no answer, and her face was cold and distant like the carved faces on the ancient Starks who sat in the crypts of Winterfell. 

When she first retreated into the silence, he had tried to touch her mind. Wildling skinchangers had shown him how to follow another’s bond to their animal, to touch the animal’s mind as softly as falling snow. He had found himself with feathers and a rapid heartbeat, and the sense of her mind. But after a couple of heartbeats she had slipped away to another animal, then another, so quickly that he had been unable to follow. The strength of her gift, and her fearlessness in using it had left him awestruck and frightened.

All of the Stark children are wargs, he had thought. Powerful ones. Robb bonded to Grey Wind so closely that he could use him in battle. Arya can reach into Nymeria across half a world. Rickon and Shaggydog are like a single being. I can hold my direwolf and my dragon, the most powerful animal known, at the same time. Bran is a greenseer. How much of the gift does she have? He was no longer confident that Sansa was the weakest of her siblings. 

Now all he could do was visit, and talk to her, and wait for her to come back to him. Most days he spoke of inconsequential things, like the doings of the court. Sometimes he read her verse or told her stories or reminisced about their youth. Keep it light, he had thought. Coax her back. He had done that, day after day, sitting with her, while her mind ranged far away.

To hell with it, he thought suddenly. “I didn’t listen to you. I got so caught up in my own nightmares that I couldn’t see that you were living your own. And then when I knew, I fell back to trying to fix everything. But I’m here now. I’m here.” He squeezed her hands, looking into those distant blue eyes. “We aren’t so different. I always thought that I could be the great hero. So long as I acted with honour, everything would fall into place. So long as I played by the rules.”

“But that’s what we were always told. Do you remember when we were children, all those stories of heroes and maidens? What did you think, when they told you that you would marry Joffrey Baratheon? You were just a child. What did you think it meant? Of course it meant the stories. And so you rode off, with your father, and you thought if you did what you were supposed to, that everything would work out for the best, because that was what happened in the stories. What else did you know about the world?

“And then it wasn’t that way. Father died, and Joffrey had you beaten. Then something happened, I don’t know what. Something bad, something that happened in the Eyrie. Robert Arryn loved you for it. What did you do, Sansa?”

He drew breath, forced himself to keep speaking, although he would have rather taken a thousand blows. “You think I don’t understand? All my life, I have done everything that was required of me, always. I tried to play by the rules. I lost my brothers of the Watch, I lost the place I thought I had found there. I lost my father and my family to a lie. I lost Daenerys.”

“Did you have something you lost? Someone? Or was what you lost the hope of a life, the idea that you might find a place of your own? Or some place of safety? And then we took that away from you, me first, then Aegon.”

 _What must that have been like?_ He imagined the fear, the powerlessness, the self-blame. “You trusted him, didn’t you? If you hadn’t, you never would have been alone with him. It was your duty to serve on the counsel, to do what he asked you to. He betrayed you.” He closed his eyes and shivered at the cruelty of it. _How could he?_

Jon rose from his seat and paced. He remembered the moment of his rebirth when he was ripped from Ghost’s flesh, his second life torn away and the agony of rising from that ice-bed. And Melisandre standing beside him, and when he fell to his knees in front of her she had no pity in her eyes. “Come, Lord Snow,” she had told him. “There is a war to fight.” He had coughed, and struggled to his feet, Melisandre making no effort to help him. And he had gone to war.

 _I was scarred: a hand burnt in the fire; a face torn by an eagle’s talons; a leg run through with an arrow and then cauterized by a maester’s red-hot iron. Those scars were my past, but all gone now, all lost in the Red Woman’s fires. She took even that._

“I thought I could be a hero. Hell, people still think I am. And then, after the War, when there was nothing left … I was so angry. I couldn’t admit it to anyone, not even to myself. I hated everyone. I hated you. You were your mother to me, and she was the first person who ever rejected me. The first person to show me that I was not a Stark, that I would never be a Stark. That day on the Wall – I could have struck you. I could have pushed you off.” He took a deep breath. 

“Instead, I sent you here, even when you begged me not to. I sent you to Aegon, when I knew nothing about him, and I did nothing to ensure that you were safe. I was a fool.” He took a breath, gasping for air. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I would give anything to go back to relive those moments. I meant to go after you, on the Wall, and I didn’t. I was too proud, too afraid, too ashamed. Everything would be different if I had, but I can’t do that now. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I want to be the hero out of the stories for you. You are my sister, and I love you.”

He looked at her belly, still flat inside her silks. “I can’t ever fix what I did. I can’t make things the way they were before. There will be a life out of all this, a life that will have to live with the consequence of our choices.” He passed his hand over his eyes. “You were right, what is the point of vengeance? But – but you have been wronged. I understand your choices – truly I do. But if all we do is compromise and make the best of things, if what Aegon has done has no answer, if this is the life that you are condemned to, then this world was not worth saving. It was not worth – It was not worth dying for.” 

The wind blew against the window. Jon went to it, and threw it open. The rain soaked him to the skin in seconds, beating against his chest. He took a deep breath, and then he was sobbing. He had never said those words out loud before. He had never admitted the truth. _I died. I died. My brothers killed me._ He gasped for breath, and the enormity of it nearly choked him, the incomprehensibility of it. The tears streamed down his face. 

_That boy I was,_ he thought. _That poor foolish boy, trying to be a man, trying to find a place to call home, wishing above all else for brothers. And they killed him. They killed me. My brothers killed me. _The salt from his tears touched his lips, the mist curled around the tower like smoke, as Jon Snow wept.__

__The mutineers had found honourable service in the Watch. At the end of the war, the survivors had received pardons for the crimes, like all the others who had fought at the Wall. Bowen Marsh lived at Eastwatch now, counting the supplies that came in trade. And Jon Snow wept, and felt the knives piercing his flesh just as they had that day._ _

__He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, and looked up to find that Sansa was standing next to him. He reached out, tentative. When she did not object to his hand on her shoulder, he pulled her to rest against him, his arm around her. She did not look at him, and they stood together, looking out into the sky, the wind blowing and the rain falling around them, and a breath of something that might have been cold._ _


	28. Seamonsters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Wendynerd for beta-reading!

Aegon:

“Sansa is my wife. Your rights over her ended the moment the High Septon bound her to me.” Aegon glared at his brother down the council chamber table. “I want to see her.”

Jon’s face stayed passive. Aegon wondered if it was a Stark trait. Sansa had a similar knack for hiding her emotions when she wished. He mentally cursed the whole damnable family.

“She is better,” Jon said. “We have made great progress. Distress her, and you could undo everything we’ve accomplished over the last few weeks. Are you prepared to risk your unborn child’s life?”

Aegon found himself dropping his gaze to the table. He picked up a piece of parchment, shuffled it under another, then pushed the entire pile to one side. A mere fortnight ago, this situation seemed so firmly under his control. Now it had turned itself upside down entirely, leaving him baffled.

“And why would my presence distress my beloved wife?” he demanded with a raised eyebrow.

There was an uncomfortable shift around the table, but no man present said a word. _Yes,_ Aegon thought. _You all know, and I know that you know, and still none of you has the courage to challenge me. My rule rests on illusions and conventions, the forbearance of the great lords and the balance of power. Oh, and a dragon that could burn any one of you alive. You are all men of expedience. If you were not, you would not have risen to the positions you hold. So you all say nothing, and you are ashamed._

Aegon’s brief moment of satisfaction faded as he looked down the table at his brother. Jon met his eyes without emotion. _He doesn’t hate me anymore,_ Aegon realized. _He doesn’t care about me enough to hate me._

Jon had taken Sansa’s seat. As Crown Prince and heir to the throne, he could have claimed the place of honour at the end of the table in the absence of a Hand. But Jon had asked for no special privileges. In meetings he had been diligent and deferential to other council members. He was even polite to Aegon himself, and that gave the king more disquiet than anything else Jon could have done.

“Half the realm would disagree that you have any claim to call her your wife,” Jon said. “The followers of the Red God, the Drowned God, and most of the North would say that you have one wife, Arianne Martell of Dorne.”

“Yes, many would call her my mistress and the child a bastard. I doubt you wish to advance that argument, brother. Sansa is my wife in law, according to the Faith of the Seven.”

“You have certainly performed your duties as a husband admirably by getting her with child so promptly. Has the High Septon considered proclaiming a miracle?”

Aegon gritted his teeth. _No wonder your men stabbed you._

“How is the Lady Sansa?” Garlan interjected.

The grandmaester scowled. “Don’t look to me. I tried to examine the woman, she became upset, and our prince drew steel on me.”

“I was airing it. Valyrian Steel needs to breathe.” Jon said. He looked at Garlan. “Sansa is better. She speaks a few words, and she will eat. But she remains very fragile.” He turned his gaze back to Aegon. “Many of the courtiers will be travelling to Summerhall with Queen Arianne. I have heard that Shireen Baratheon plans to travel, to act as a witness to the dissolution of your union, and that the High Septon must officiate. How long before he can return to King’s Landing for the wedding?”

“Two weeks for the trip to Summerhall, and at least a week there for negotiations, agreements to be signed, and then if all goes well, for the ceremony of dissolution.” Garlan said. “But if Trystane Martell brings a sizeable force of men, as seems likely, then Lady Shireen will as well.”

Robter snorted. “And then Highgarden will send knights. Every man in the place will have their hand on a hilt. Just make sure that we don’t end up with blood spilled. That’s the last thing we need.”

Aegon eyed the Master of Coin. Robter and Jon had been circumspect, but he would be a fool if he didn’t know that they were in cahoots. He could dismiss the man from the council, but he didn’t currently have a competent replacement. That was why he had appointed Robter in the first place. He consoled himself with the knowledge that he could at least keep an eye on the bastard while he remained on the council.

Varys still provided him with regular reports, of course. Aegon could not fault the man’s work. But the Master of Whispers had been distant and preoccupied since the court had returned from Harrenhal. Aegon had no cause for fault, but his instincts told him to be on his guard.

“So there will be nearly two moons before a formal wedding can be held in the Great Sept,” Davos said. “We cannot rush things. If the peace is to be maintained, this wedding must be one no man in the realm can dispute.”

“I want to take Sansa to Dragonstone while the court is at Summerhill,” Jon said.

Aegon stared at his brother incredulously.

“With your permission of course, Brother,” Jon continued. He even had a half-smile on his face. “There has already been one attempt on her life here, and that does not include your cousin Obara’s actions. The court is hardly a nurturing environment. I have spoken to Lady Margaery, and suggested that she and her husband might like to visit Dragonstone with us.”

“Margie loves the sea,” Garlan said enthusiastically. “And she and Sansa have been such close friends for all these years. I am happy to accept on her behalf. It won’t take her long to pack.”

“The weather is good for sailing at this time of year,” Davos said. “I have a half-dozen ships with reliable captains who can make sure the party are safe on the way to the island. In the royal flagship, the lady would be as comfortable as in her chambers.”

Aegon’s jaw dropped. He looked sharply at the Grandmaester.

“Absurd,” the man protested. “The island is unhealthy. No place for a future King to be born.”

It was all Aegon could do not to roll his eyes at this lame objection. _I was born on Dragonstone, you fool,_ he thought, just as Robter pointed out that exact thing.

This had the air of something that had been carefully planned ahead of time. He suspected that Margaery Tyrell loved the sea about as much as she had loved Joffrey Baratheon. But now refusal would not only look petty, it would insult the Tyrells. And Margaery would take offense, he knew that. The former queen was as prickly about her status as a cactus.

On the other hand, Aegon could stand to look petty, and the Tyrells would survive an insult. If he had the shadow of an excuse …

He looked to Gerald Corbray. “What say you, my Lord Commander of the Kingsguard?”

The man shifted. He did not look at Jon, nor any of the other councillors. His face was unhappy. “It might be wise to remove the lady from the dangers of King’s Landing. I would accompany her, if that was Your Grace’s order.” He coughed. “The child she carries … the humors of King’s Landing did little Princess Rhaenys no good when she was fighting the greyscale.”

The words took a moment to settle into Aegon’s ears, and then he stared at Corbray, stunned.

 _Rhaenys._ His little Rhaenys who had loved to run after Corbray and try to catch the edge of his white cloak. If he wasn’t busy, the Lord Commander would sometimes pretend he didn’t know she was there, and he would walk around with her dragging on the floor behind him, her giggles echoing off the walls.

Corbray had been on guard the night ... the night she died, and he never said a word after. But when Aegon had been standing vigil in the Sept, the Lord Commander had come to stand beside him, and had put his hand wordlessly on his King’s shoulder.

Was he Jon’s? Aegon considered the possibility and rejected it. Corbray held to his vows. There was no treachery in his nature.

“Very well,” he said. His throat was tight, and he coughed. _Daddy, Daddy, it hurts. I can’t move my legs. Make it better, Daddy._ “Swear that you will bring her back for the wedding. Swear on your honour.”

“I swear.” Jon said, his face solemn. “On my honour, and by the Old Gods, I will return Sansa to King’s Landing.”

Aegon nodded. He could hear his daughter’s voice in his ears, like a roaring river. “Then get out. All of you. Get the hell out.”

There was a moment of uncertainty, then the council filed from the room, all but Varys, who stepped back into a corner. Jon hesitated by the door, but he followed the others. As the door closed behind them, Aegon seized his cup of wine and threw it against the wood. The red liquid dripped down onto the floor. He sat back in his chair, in the empty room.

“Say what you wish, or go,” he told Varys.

“Gerold Dayne has returned to King’s Landing, and he is seeking an audience with you. With the reward Arianne has offered for his head, I think he is finding life uncomfortable. He wants you to give him a pardon for all crimes committed, past and future.”

Aegon sighed. Darkstar was a pretentious fool, but he had proven useful over the years. The mess in the throne room had put that use at an end. Darkstar had been intended to slip away quietly in the confusion, but Podrick Payne’s ill-timed heroism and Dayne’s senseless attack on the man prevented that. Arianne had seen him, and the agents Sansa had put on his tail had proved persistent. But the man had no proof of Aegon’s involvement. His well-known feud with the Martells made his word suspect if he was to make any accusations.

“Offer the Darkstar enough gold to make a new life in Essos. That is all I can do for him. The man knew the risks.” Aegon dismissed Dayne and his grievances from his mind. “Is that all?”

“Not entirely. There is the matter of Tyene Sand’s death.”

“We’ve been over that time and time again. I admit the timing is suspicious, but there is nothing that indicates anything other than accident. Both her window and door were bolted from the inside, and you admit yourself that there was no other way into the room. You have no proof of anything being amiss, do you?.

 

“No.” Varys let the word fall between them. “But I know there are forces in this world beyond any rational understanding. Your Grace, you are a dragonrider. You must understand that. And what you did, of all places, Harrenhal … you played with forces beyond anything you can imagine.”

Aegon took a breath, frustrated. “Lord Varys. We do not always agree, but I will listen if you have advice for me. But I cannot make decisions on innuendo and fear.”

“No,” Varys agreed. “You cannot. But if you had asked my advice before you set us on this course, I would have warned you against it. Not that lady, and not that place. And yet, here we are.”

Aegon shook his head. “What do you want of me?” he demanded. “What is it I must do? You did not want a pawn, or a fool, or an ignoramus. But you would still pull the puppet’s strings. You want me to hold my rule by means of a magic beast, but you hate and fear magic. You must have known that I desired the woman, and you did nothing, but now you censure me. All my life, you’ve been the shadow in the corner. Lord Varys, what is it that you want?”

The eunuch paused, and then giggled. “Years ago I would have given you an answer befitting the Spider. But the truth, my king? I am only a man, with a man’s foolishness and vicissitude. I played the game in my time. But now I dream of darkness. I fear my time is ending. If it helps those of you who are left to believe that I was more than human, different, better than regular men, please continue.”

“That is it?” Aegon asked, incredulous. “That is all you have to say? Nothing more?”

Varys coughed. “Well, my Grace, it matters little. But I would tell you that I would have given up years ago, except that I have come to find affection for you in my heart. You were meant to be no more than a pawn, and I fear you will remain that, for all your posturing. But I would do better for you, if I could.”

“Is that all my life is? Your whims and your guilt?”

“Perhaps,” said Varys, with a little giggle, and Aegon felt cold inside.

“Then get out.”

As the door closed behind the Master of Whipers, Aegon thought of his dragon. Rhaegal. He would go to his dragon, take to the air, feel the warmth of the beast’s scales against his skin. When flying, sometimes Aegon felt like they were a single being, and that being felt more dragon than man.

Dragons understood what it was to hate.

***

Jon:

Jon sat in his solar, checking his weapons while Lucian packed clothes. They would sail for Dragonstone on the morning tide. Garlan Tyrell sat opposite him.

“So the dower payment is made the morning after the wedding, from the lord to the lady, although the amount is agreed on well in advance. There is a variety of language used to explain its purpose, but it is generally seen as being made in acknowledgement of the great honour that the lady does her lord by … well, it is in honour of her person and lineage.” Garlan looked uncomfortable. “Some documents do state that it is ‘for the use of her body’.”

Jon drew the whetstone up Lonclaw’s blade. “I’m sure my brother can be relied on to demand the most awful wording conceivable. Let us talk about amounts. How is the dowry to be paid?”

“It depends greatly upon the circumstances. For two houses that share borders or have the same liege, castles and lands may be transferred. Towns have changed hands, either in perpetuity, or their incomes assigned for the lifetime of the lady. Payments of cash or goods are, of course, always welcomed, but there are hazards. I understand that King Robert spent Queen Cersei’s dowry in three years. Aegon is no spendthrift, but given the state of negotiations with the Iron Bank, it might be wise to structure the settlement so there is no single source of coin they could demand.”

For all that Jon had received a lord’s education alongside Robb, this was new territory for him. He had never expected to marry or father children, so he had allowed himself to daydream during Maester Luwin’s lessons. He regretted it now.

“You mentioned that you might be able to find some precedents?”

Garlan brightened. “Yes, more so than expected. My scribes were able to locate copies of all the betrothal or marriage agreements back to Prince Rhaegar and Elia Martell.” Garlan produced six documents. “That is five marriages: Rheagar and Elia, Robert and Cersei, my sister Margaery to Joffrey, Margaery again, to Tommen, and Princess Arianne to Aegon.”

“And the last?” Jon asked curiously, eyeing the final document. It was stained as if from travel, folded rather than rolled, but written on expensive parchment.

“The betrothal agreement for Joffrey Baratheon and Sansa Stark, signed by Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark.”

Jon took it with a hand he had to prevent from shaking. The existence of this document had never crossed his mind. As he scanned the two sets of handwriting, he found them both unfamiliar. He must have seen Ned Stark’s script, but he had no memory of it.

The document was brief, and the language simple, suitable to an agreement between two old friends. From the date, Jon could see that it had been written on the road south from Winterfell. He envisioned the fat old King and Lord Stark sitting in a tent, with cups of wine by their side, haggling and laughing together as they negotiated the marriage of their children. It would have been summer, and a time of plenty.

And the wealth of those years showed. Jon felt his breath catch. Ten castles that had been part of Catelyn Stark’s dowry from the Tullys. A fleet of ships to be built in White Harbour. A portion of the lumber and silver harvested from all of the North, to be paid annually during Sansa’s lifetime. And diamonds, itemized according to size, weight, and color, hundreds and hundreds of diamonds.

 _With a tenth of this, I could have equipped every man of the Night’s Watch with the finest armour and weapons coin could buy. I could have had those twenty trebuchets I wanted for Castle Black, and more like them at every maned point on the Wall._ He thought of the hands and feet his men had lost to frostbite for lack of warm clothes, of the young boys and old men gutted where a piece of boiled leather might have saved them.

 _And all this to celebrate the joining of a sweet, silly, dreamy girl, half a child, to one of the most useless little shits in the Seven Kingdoms._ Jon forced himself to stop as the wave of bitterness threatened to rise. It wasn’t King Robert and Lord Eddard’s fault, or not theirs alone. They had acted according to custom, and Lord Eddard, at least, had never intended to neglect his duty. _But … I made mistakes as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Bad mistakes. At least the men who died as a result had a say in choosing me to lead them._

To distract himself from those bleak thoughts, he looked back at the list. “The Star of the North,” he mused. “The value of that jewel alone … we assumed that the Boltons had taken it, but it wasn’t in the goods looted from Winterfell. We thought they must have sold it in the Free Cities.”

“Is it a diamond?”

Jon shook his head. “A sapphire. A star sapphire, that my great-grandfather gave to then-Lady Stark.”

Garlan looked suddenly uncomfortable.

Several things clicked into place in Jon’s mind. The itemized list was a description of jewels that Ned Stark had been bringing south. They were likely in the Tower of the Hand when the Lannisters arrested him and slaughtered his men. A portion of Sansa’s dowry had likely ended up in the Cersei Lannister’s jewel case. And given the look on Garlan’s face, Jon could guess who had the Star of the North now.

He glared. “Tell. Your. Sister. To. Give. It. Back.”

Garlan went scarlet. “I will speak to Margaery. There may have been some misunderstanding.”

Likely the only misunderstanding was Margaery thinking she could get away with it. Jon added the Star of the North to his notes on the property available, alongside Catelyn’s lands, and certain concessions of timber and silver from the North. It was a respectable amount. I just wish it was going to buy a marriage that would have some hope of happiness for Sansa. Is that such an impossible thing to wish for?

Three times, Sansa had been given or promised in marriage, and the best she had known was a loveless union with a man scorned by most of the realm as a depraved monster.

“I never understood how Lord Stark could do what he did to Sansa and I.” Jon mused, looking at the words on the page. “Decide both our fates without a second thought. What kind of man gives a girl he loves to Joffrey Baratheon?”

There was a moment of silent, as Jon stared at the paper. Then Garlan spoke.

“I did.”

Jon looked up sharply. Garlan’s face was pale, and he looked somehow younger. Then he blinked. It was as if a mask fell across his face, and he smiled the Tyrell smile that Jon had seen on Margaery’s lips and Loras’ ruined face.

“So I do, to some measure, understand your feelings,” Garlan said smoothly. “My family has made unsavoury matches for practical reasons.”

 _Practical?_ Jon wondered at the choice of words, and what the truth behind them was. It was common knowledge that Olenna Tyrell killed Joffrey at his own wedding feast. How much had Garlan known? Had he been told, and sat by as his grandmother took the risk? Or had he found out later, and know that he wasn’t trusted with his family’s darker, more dangerous plots? He looked at Garlan’s smile, and knew he would never be told. The Tyrells were a dark pool of secrets. _And I may have to bind myself to them if I need their help._

After Garlan excused himself to have what was likely to be a difficult conversation with his sister, Jon fretted. He wondered about Alys, and what sort of woman she would grow to become. Then he thought of Sansa, the girl who had ridden south, and the woman who sat so silently in her tower and stared out the window with shadowed eyes. By what right do I judge Eddard Stark? I am doing what he did, and I cannot claim that I didn’t know.

Later that afternoon, Lucion announced that Podrick Payne was seeking an audience. Jon told the manservant to show him in, repressing his sense of irony. _An audience … as if I was a king. But … I am royalty, the heir to the Iron Throne until Sansa’s child is born._ It still caught him unawares, like the Gods were playing a joke and were about to come to the cruel punchline and leave everyone laughing. He thought of playing at swords with Robb, and how his brother had mocked him when, lightly, he had thought to call himself the Lord of Winterfell.

Podrick stood uncertainly when Jon bade him to sit. He kept his eyes on the floor.

“Please sit down,” Jon said.

The young knight stayed standing. “The King … I am told he has decided to deny my request to remain at court, to be sworn shield … I am to leave King’s Landing before nightfall.”

 _This is the price of Dragonstone,_ Jon thought. In truth, it was better than he had feared. For all that Podrick looked miserable, Jon was relieved to have him safely away from the capital. _This could have gone worse. Much worse._

“Have you thought about what you will do now?” Jon asked.

Podrick shook his head. “I have coin,” he said, miserably. “For the first time ever. Tyrion left me a chest of it. Enough to live comfortably for the rest of my life, even to have a family, his letter said.” He shook his head. “It was more than I would know how to spend, even if I tried.”

“There is another thing you could do,” Jon said gently. “Not what you want, not to be close to her, but it would be honourable. Sansa’s sister Ayra went to Essos near a year ago. She’s been gone too long. You could find her and bring her home.”

“Arya Stark,” Podrick sounded surprised. “Sansa suggested that I try to find her – before … . In truth, I don’t think she ever believed that it was possible. She said Arya was looking for sea monsters. Sansa meant it as a way for me to see the world, and leave her behind.” The young knight’s face went resolute. “But it was what she wanted, the last thing she asked of me. I’ll find Arya Stark and bring her back to Westeros. I don’t know how, but I will do it.”

Likely you will spend moons or even years, and Arya will return when she wishes. Jon would have given much for the presence of his little sister. He would have given much just to know that she was safe and happy. There was much he wished he could ask her about the previous seven years, about the complicated and fractious relationship of the Stark sisters. _Where are you, Arya? And why?_

“I don’t know if it would help, but there is a blacksmith at the Inn at the Crossings who is a … friend of Arya’s. He might have some suggestions on where to start looking. You can take ship from Saltpans.” Jon frowned. “And I will ride to the city gates with you, to ensure that you leave the city safely. I trust my brother as far as I can spit him.”

***

Sansa:

The lights of King’s Landing were magical from the sky. Even the bad air lent a soft rosy-grey haze to half a million hearths and torches. Sansa let herself ride gently along with the mind of a gull soaring over the city as the last light of the day faded away. She was half aware of one of her attendants – Septa Giana, who had been sent by the High Sparrow – leaving a basket of cut roses and murmuring a question as to whether Sansa wished another pillow.

I must answer, she thought, and pulled herself back into her body. It was like tripping and falling to collapse back into herself, to feel the sudden ache and fatigue. Marya had promised that she would feel better as the weeks passed, but Sansa was still wretched. _How did my mother endure this five times? Or Aunt Lysa, carrying babe after babe until her body was ruined, and only a single sickly son to show for it?_ She ran her hand over her belly.

“You’ll be born safe, little one,” she whispered. “And you won’t have to be afraid of anything. Not ever.”

_What did I see that night? Was it real? Was that my son, healthy and strong? Or maybe my mind was creating a fantasy out of my wishes and hopes. Perhaps this child will be born dead, or sickly, or it will be a girl._

_Please, by all the Old Gods and the New, let this child not be a girl._

She had listened in on Jon’s audiences, through the ears of small rodents that crept through the rushes. Her skills were growing. In recent days that she had mastered the trick of controlling more than one creature at a time. When she had been new to skinchanging, she had overreached her abilities – she didn’t like to think about that. She had forced herself to learn again the lessons of patience that Petyr had taught her so long ago.

But … Podrick to go searching for Arya. She had been glad when first she had heard that he would be safe in Essos, well out of the reach of Aegon’s spite. Then she had begun to think. Podrick had sounded so confident. Could he actually do it? Could he find her sister?

She wrapped her arms around herself and huddled into her chair. _I don’t want to see her. I don’t want her to see me, not like this._ Tears began to trickle down her cheeks. _I would be so ashamed._ She shouldn’t cry, Sansa knew that, but she couldn’t help herself.

Her own words, more than a year past, rang in her ears. _“You as unfit to be a noble lady as you are to engage in diplomacy. Whatever life you lead in the war has ruined you for any kind of civilized society. You are as feral as your wolf, and as dangerous and useless. If you cannot help me, then find a way to occupy yourself where at the absolute least you will not cause further harm. Is such a thing possible?”_

They had been quarrelling. In truth, Sansa and Arya had been fighting since the early days of spring, a single bitter conflict that centred (much as her sister might try to make the issue something else) on Arya’s unbetrothed status.

Sansa remembered the day it had started. They had ridden out together, taking a break from duties, and had stopped by the banks of a river. As they sat together, Sansa had produced a list of excellent potential suitors, and had told her sister that regardless of her personal feelings, the Stark line could not depend entirely on Rickon. Arya would marry to continue the family. It was her duty. Arya had looked stunned, and had made immediate objection. In her eyes the solution was obvious; Sansa would annul her union to Tyrion and remarry.

Four years passed without Arya seeing reason. Matters had cumulated when Arya had discovered that Sansa had written to Ned Dayne and invited him to be a guest at Winterfell with the purpose of courting Arya, cautioning discretion as Arya was unaware of this.

When confronted, Sansa had admitted that she was in the wrong, but that Ned Dayne was a good-hearted lad who would take suggestion in the spirit it was meant. Arya had been silent for a long time, and Sansa had hoped that she had seen sense. That hope was dashed when her sister had made a spiteful counteroffer. Arya would travel to Riverrun, or the Eyrie, and entertain suitors, if Sansa annulled her marriage to Tyrion and did the same. Sansa did not speak to Arya for days.

In that time, Rickon and Arya had ridden out with their wolves to look for a bandit hideout. They cleared out the bandits, but on the way back Shaggydog and Nymeria had brought down a prized breeding bull that a nearby Lord had just imported from the Westerlands at vast expense. The complaint, and the demand for hefty compensation, had arrived at Winterfell before her siblings had returned. They had ridden in together, laughing, their wolves by their side, and their faces glowing with pride. And Sansa had lashed into them. Arya had left Winterfell a fortnight later.

 _It was just a bit of coin. I should never have said what I did. But I was too angry, and too proud, to take it back. If she knew how stupid I have been, if she saw me like this, near a prisoner, my belly swelling, a stupid girl who cannot take care of herself …_ Sansa buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking as she wept.

The door opened, and there were soft footsteps. She hurriedly wiped her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Septa, but I wish to be alone.”

Hands clasped her shoulders from behind. “We all wish for things we can’t have, Sweetling,” murmured Aegon into her ear.


	29. Quickening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was probably the most difficult to write since the rape. It contains depictions of abuse with sexual conduct. Although the physical stuff is relatively limited, it goes deeply into the cycle of abuse from the mindset of a victim. Please consider the warnings before continuing. Anyone who finds it too much can skip to the last sentence of the chapter. 
> 
> Thank you so much to WendyNerd and TommyGinger for their comments. You guys are the best.

Sansa:

She gasped at the sound of Aegon’s voice and twisted around to face him. He looked down at her and his hands tightened on her shoulders. Suddenly there was no breath in her lungs.

She felt twelve years old, saw Joffrey’s wormy face and the bright mail of the Kingsguard, tasted blood in her mouth.

She remembered Petyr Baelish’s dry kisses and the smile that never reached his eyes.

She felt Sandor Clegane’s knife at her throat. _He never kissed me, I wanted to believe he kissed me, that it was a romantic dream. He held the knife to my throat and ordered me to sing._

She thought of Septa Mordane, how the woman had wept over her lost youth and petted Sansa as she put her to bed at night. _She told me how pretty I was. She told I was all she had in the world. She told me she loved me._

“My … my lord,” she said. “I did not expect you.”

Davos and Marya had moved into Tyrion’s old rooms below. They would likely be finishing dinner. There must be guards on the stairs, servants bringing things, the Seaworth boys going out to a night’s entertainment in the city taverns. She could call out. Someone would hear and come. Maybe. And he would be angrier, and he would find a way to make me pay for it. She kept her silence.

He didn’t move, just stood over her, looking down at her, a slight smile on his lips. The silence stretched between them.

Sansa found herself breaking it. “You are welcome, of course … if I had known … my maids have gone to supervise the loading of the ship …”. _I am babbling like a fool._ She stopped and smiled up at him.

“You look well,” he said. He ran his fingers up the side of her neck, twisted a lock of her hair around his finger. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you, my lord.” _Stay. Stay here. I cannot hide in the mind of a bird not now. This is bad – the worst I have seen him since the night I was brought back to Harrenhal._ She forced herself to remain calm, to remain present.

He took his hands away, and strolled over to help himself to a cup of wine from the flagon the table. He sipped, watching her over the rim of his cup. “You haven’t greeted me,” he told her.

She stood and walked over to him. He didn’t bend his head, so she had to stand on her toes to kiss him.

When they had first met, so long ago, she had not been so conscious of his height, or the mass of his body. Although lean for a man, Aegon was strong, accustomed to riding and training at arms, and he was over a head taller than her. Sansa was a tall woman, she was not used to men making her feel small. She felt small now, and as fragile as a dandelion head gone to seed, like one puff of wind could blow half of her away.

He put her hand in the small of her back and drew her against him so that their bodies were pressed together. Then he hissed in surprise.

“Let me see,” he said.

She paused, uncertain what he meant. Impatient, he caught her by the arms and lifted her, sitting her on the table beside the flagon and the goblets. His touch was more gentle as he ran his hands over her belly, which had rounded into a small but distinct bump. It was uncomfortable, sitting on the polished wood, her slippered feet dangling in the air, while Aegon probed the edges of that tiny bump, his thumbs prodding the outlines of her womb. He palpated the top, just underneath her navel, and then the sides, where she had only just begun to feel the hollows of her hipbones rounding out. Then he was at the bottom, his thumbs tracing a line, poking into her flesh. She stared at the wall-hangings, and tried not to move.

“The Grandmaester said you refused to let him examine you.”

“I … I … he frightened me. Marya and Septa Giana say that I am doing well. I am too thin, but …”

“If you cannot ensure the well-being of this child when you are carrying it, perhaps I should make other arrangements for its care when it is born.” His tone was calm, matter of fact.

She felt the breath catch in her throat. “No. No. I will—“

“Sh,” he said, putting his finger against her lips. “Be quiet. You are better now, are you not?”

Silently, she nodded.

“Then there is no need for you to go to Dragonstone, is there? You will speak to Jon and tell him you don’t wish to go. He’s riding out of the city now. Podrick Payne is leaving.” there was a glint in his eye at that. She forced herself to keep her face impassive. “When he comes back, you’ll send for him. He’ll want to meet with you alone, of course.”

She fought back tears. “Please, let’s sit down, and talk about this,” she said. She took his hand and led him to a padded couch by the window. The last light of the sun was fading, and the ocean was turning to dark grey, dotted with the black outlines of islands like ghostly ships. He settled down, his cup in his hand, and watched her while she moved candlesticks closer. “Have you eaten, my lord?” she asked. Septa Giana had left a plate of cheeses and fruits by the wine, and she picked up the knife to cut an apple, then put it down again when he shook his head.

She took a quick look in the mirror as she passed it. I am still pretty, she thought with relief. Perhaps her eyes were a little red from crying, but her waist was still slender, her bosom still high and shapely. She tugged the neckline of her dress downward and painted a smile on her face. He was watching her. She could feel her lips quiver. _I look stupid. Smiling like a fool. Just a stupid, stupid girl._ She felt a flutter in her belly.

She took a sharp breath to steady herself. _Take a step. Another. Walk to him._ His eyes focused on her hips as she moved, and she let the breath out as she saw the flash of desire in his eyes. She knew that look, had known it all her life.

She felt the flutter again. She stopped as a sudden realization hit her.

_That … that is my child moving. Quickening inside me. Oh, my little one. My poor child._

And then it was easier to walk over to him, to let him pull her down so that she straddled his lap, to let him press his lips to hers. His mouth was wet against hers, his lips seemingly gentle. She felt him cup her breast and squeeze, and she gasped.

“I’ve missed you,” he said, breaking the kiss.

His hand was still on her breast. _It hurts,_ she wanted to say, but he knew it hurt. Of course he knew. After a moment, he released his grip.

“My wife,” he continued. “My beautiful wife. If that is what you are,” he said, and his lip quirked.

“I am. Of course I am. The High Septon has said it … he annulled my marriage … he granted permission and said the words. I’m not …”

“Not my mistress? Or my whore? Even if I can make you moan like one.”

She felt herself flushing with shame, and his smile deepened. _It doesn’t matter what he says. If he can have his fun like this, if he will be content, that is not so bad. He loves it when I am ashamed._

She met his gaze, settled back a bit, and then reached for the lacing of her bodice. Slowly and carefully, she began to draw the silk ribbon out through the first eyelet.

“Tyrion used to speak of Dragonstone,” she said. “He lived there for a time while doing his research into dragonlore. He said it was a peaceful place. He used to like to stand on the balconies and look back to King’s Landing and pretend he was Aegon the Conqueror.”

Aegon hesitated. “I can take you to Dragonstone. After the wedding.” His hand settled on her hip, and his eyes were bright. “I could give you the next babe in the Conqueror’s bed.”

She pulled that lace free and started on the next one. “This one needs to be born safe for that to happen,” she said with a frown. “I would be frightened to be all alone in King’s Landing. Besides, if I didn’t go, Jon might insist on being in Summerhall the entire time, distracting--”

His face darkened and his eyes narrowed. She knew instantly she had made a mistake. _Fool,_ she thought. _To remind him of his brother the hero. Madness._ Her hands were shaking as she pulled another lace out, faster now, but he wasn’t even watching.

“You said you thought to fly to Casterly Rock for Tyrion’s burial in the Hall of Heroes,” she said, desperately. _Think about Tyrion, please. Not Jon. Think about the Hand you loved, that man who was rational, even kind sometimes, for all the cruelty the world had shown him. Think about Tyrion, who tried to be kind to me._ “If you were to go—“

“Shut up.” He pushed her off his lap, slowly but inexorably, until she was on her knees on the floor in front of him. The shoulders of her dress were falling off, the silk sliding against her skin, but she did not dare pull them up. She felt like she did not dare even to breathe.

_It will be over soon. What will happen will happen, and then he will smile and say he is sorry. I love those times, when everything is all right, when he is the smiling, funny, handsome king I met all those moons ago. If only I could stay in those times forever._

And then she felt that fluttering in her belly, and felt the breath in her lungs. She stared at the floor, and a thought rose in her mind. _I am a Stark of Winterfell._

“Do you think I am stupid?” His voice was soft. “Hmm? Do you think I am a fool that you can manipulate by flashing your teats and batting your eyes? I’m disappointed in you, Sansa. I thought we understood each other better.” He took a drink of his wine. “I respect your intelligence more than you respect mine, it seems. What is your plan? Let Jon and I fight it out, hope he wins. If he doesn’t, warm my bed and wait for what … your little brother Rickon to avenge you? Or slip me a cup of poison once you have your ‘heir and a spare’?”

“I … I just wanted to live in peace.” She thought of Podrick, riding away from her. _I wanted to love and be loved. I wanted to feel safe._

“I just wanted to live in peace,” his voice quickened, and there was a harsh, mocking edge. “I could have kept you in peace. No, you just wanted to do whatever you pleased, whenever you pleased.” He reached out and touched her collarbone, drew a line downwards. She held still as she remembered Harrenhal and Valyrian steel in the moonlight. “Well, you know more about pleasing than you once did,” he said. He reached out and grabbed a handful of her hair. “You aren’t that cold useless bitch Jon sent me.” Then he ground her face into his crotch.

The wool of his breeches was scratchy against her cheek, and she could smell his scent – she knew it well – as she fought to breathe. She struggled to pull away, but his hand on the back of her head was strong. She could feel tears seeping from her eyes. Finally, after what felt like forever, he let her go. She fell back onto the ground, gasping. Watching her, he drained his cup.

“I can get you more.” She heard herself say the words as if from a very great distance away. She held out her hand for the cup, and he gave it to her. She pushed herself up from the floor, the cup in one hand. Her gown had fallen open, exposing one breast. There was hair in her eyes. She walked over to the table, poured him a new cup of wine, then one for herself, which she drained in a single swallow. She came back, handed him the wine, and knelt in front of him, reaching for the lacing of his breeches.

He was just raising the cup to his lips when she stuck the knife into his gut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, all. I know this was a rough one. I considered carefully whether it was necessary to have this chapter, but it was very important to me from a character point of view that the readers understand what Sansa has been living with. Although I do not think all of Sansa and Aegon's interactions were in this extreme pre-violence-walking-on-eggshells phase of the cycle, the abusive nature of their relationship affected all her interactions with others in this story, particularly Jon.


	30. Flying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Wendynerd and Tommyginger for beta-reading!

Aegon dropped the cup, and knocked her hand away. His features contorted with fury. Then his gaze dropped to the knife in her hand, and he saw the blood on the blade. He put his hand to his stomach. His face went ashen. 

“Sansa, what have you done?” There was an almost childlike quality to his voice. Blood was spilling out from between his fingers. 

She held out the knife in the palm of her hand, in mute explanation. It was a small, puny thing, fit for no more than cutting fruit, its edge dull. _A poor weapon to wield against a king,_ she thought, with a distant detached part of her mind. _If I had known, I would have used a finer blade._

“I stabbed you,” she said.

“Yes.” Aegon replied. “Yes, I know that. Yes. Sweat of the Stranger’s Balls.”

“Language!” she said automatically. Then she gasped, and put her hand to her lips. _What have I done?_ “I am not sorry,” she burst out. “I am not sorry, do you hear me, you … fool?” She brandished the knife at him, while his blood dripped out onto the stone floor. She wished she knew better names to curse him with.

“Sansa—“

“No. I don’t care. I don’t care. Do you hear me, by the Seven, I don’t care!”

“Sansa, just listen—“

“I am done doing what you tell me, you pig’s turd.” _Good. Yes. Pig’s turd._ “Never again, do you hear me?”

Aegon put his hand up in gesture he clearly intended to be calming. She waved the knife again. His eyes tracked the blade. He moistened his lips. “Yes. I hear you,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“You understand that I am done?”

He stared at her, panting for breath, blood on his hands. “Yes. Sansa, I understand that.”

She put the knife down on the floor in between them. His blood was forming a pool on the stone. “You are bleeding.”

“Listen to me. What has happened between us … for the sake of this child, listen. I want you to go down the stairs, and tell Davos that I need him.” Aegon was pale, his violet eyes dark. His fingers over his belly were red with blood. “Tell him to come.” There was a moment’s silence between them, then Aegon bowed his head. “Please.”

She nodded. “I … will.”

“And then, Sansa?”

She waited.

“Run. Get the seven hells out of King’s Landing. Do it now.”

For a moment, out of the corner of her eye, Sansa saw something. She turned her head, and there was Lady, her golden eyes glowing in the candlelight like fire. 

“Go!”

Sansa scrambled backwards, found herself on her feet. The door was behind her. Seven steps would have been appropriate in the eyes of the gods. It took her nine. Just as she was almost through the door, she paused for an instant to look back at Aegon. He said nothing, just jerked his head for her to go. He didn’t look so large now. Just a boy, only a dozen years older than Rickon. The heavy oaken door made a deep sound as it shut behind her. 

The steps were narrow, the torches sporadically placed. She descended in the dark. Her right foot was slipping. As she reached the landing outside what had been Tyrion’s rooms, she realized why. Her slipper was soaked with blood from toe to arch. She was leaving bloody half-prints behind her. 

Her gown was still unlaced. She held it closed with one hand and knocked with the other. 

“I need Lord Seaworth,” she told the boy who came to the door. One of Davos’ sons? “Please be so good as to fetch him. The matter is urgent.”

The boy’s eyes went wide, and he vanished into the other room without a word. Sansa was left alone outside the door. She combed her fingers through her hair, managing to get it out of her eyes and back onto the top of her head, so that was something.

Davos came to the door, in the informal shirt and trews he would only wear for a meal with his family. After she stumbled through an explanation of the problem, there was a moment of silence. And then Sansa received an education on what it meant to be the master of a ship. 

“Marya, up the stairs. Devan, find the Grandmaster. If you can’t find the Grandmaester, any maester will do, just get them here. Stannis, get Lord Commander Corbray, make sure he knows we have a problem. Stephon, find out where Prince Jon is. No, don’t bring him here, by the seven hells. Get him to the dragonpit. Now all of you, move.” And his family obeyed without a moment’s hesitation. 

In the whirlwind of people Davos had set in motion, no one was paying attention to Sansa. She heard the echo of Aegon’s voice. _Go. Go now._ There were guards on duty at the entrance to the tower, but she followed Stannis Seaworth as he ran out, and the guards did not notice her. She slipped down one corridor and then another. 

She was half running, but then she stopped and forced herself to think. In an alcove, she relaced her bodice and took off the wet slipper. She would have thrown it away, but a lot of work had gone into those slippers, all embroidered by her maids in flowers and mystic beasts, so she put it into a pocket and hoped the blood wouldn’t show through. 

She took a side stair that only a long-term resident of the Keep would know, then down another corridor, and outside into the night air. Summer air, warm, scented, and like a dream. She drew breath. Outside, alone. She felt new, like she was reborn. Light. Euphoric. She stretched her arms out, and a wild laugh burst out. _I am free._

And then: _If Aegon lives, I still need to marry that wretched man properly. Well, won’t that be awkward?_ She laughed again at the thought, laughed and laughed. She spun around and hugged herself, looked up into the night air and felt tears trickle down her cheeks. _I can breathe, I can breathe for the first time in my life._

_Petyr would be furious. How many times did he bed Aunt Lysa? Poor Petyr. Poor Aunt Lysa._

She was on one of the parapets. She gathered her skirt, and ran. The stone was rough under her bare foot. 

The guard on duty at the drawbridge to Maegor’s holdfast let her through. Although she had not been to the Godswood in months, he knew her habit of going there to pray, and let her pass unchallenged. 

_They love me for my piety_ , she thought. It had always filled her with wonder. _Kneeling to the old gods and the new. Just so long as it isn’t R’hllor. Not that I wouldn’t have prayed to a Fire God if I had though he would keep a baby or two alive through the winter. We could have used some fire then._

_I could use some now._

She stopped in the outer courtyard, near the kitchen gardens. _They won’t let me out into the city_ , she thought. _I cannot get out._

The earlier fierce joy drained from her like water. By all the Gods, what have I done? She looked down. Her dress was made of a dark fabric, but she could see the stains of blood around the hem. Aegon’s blood. The blood of her king, her husband, the father of her unborn child. 

_I’m not sorry,_ she thought grimly. 

She thought of way down the cliff, where she had climbed after Joffrey’s death, but she touched her belly and knew she dare not risk a fall, even if she could have found the strength for that climb. 

_I must wait for Jon to find me._ A wave of ire swept through her. _I am tired of depending on others._

Her steps lead her down paths she had walked a hundred times before. A lifetime ago she had come here with her father and Arya: the godswood. A small, sheltered place of peace in the heart of the great keep, in the midst of the crowded city. She had come here to meet with Ser Dontos all those years ago, to plan her escape. Now it was her refuge again.

As the trees closed around her, a wave of weariness swept over her, and she felt for a moment like she might faint. Sansa sat down in the grass by the heart tree. The moon was just rising in the inky sky, and the air was so still that even the trees did not rustle. In the shadows, under the trees, she thought that she saw the dark haired man with the violet eyes. Then he faded. Lounging in a fork one of the trees was a woman – tall and slender, with a body like a blade and silver hair in dozens of tiny braids down her back. Sansa blinked, and she was gone, too. 

So tired. So very tired. Sansa reached out with her mind, looking for an owl or some other night bird to fly with, but the skies over the Red Keep were empty. She looked around the Godswood, its trees like silent sentinels. 

There was something new, her mind registered. A small sapling, barely more than a shoot. growing not far from the heart tree. She looked at it, noting its white bark and red leaves, before it dawned on her what she was seeing. A weirwood. The sapling of a weirwood, growing here in the heart of the city. She reached out to touch its red leaves. They were velvety against her skin. Then her fingers brushed the trunk and a shock coursed through her veins. 

_“Sansa.”_

She pulled her hand back sharply. Her mind went to the day she returned to Winterfell. Rickon had been safe at White Harbour, Arya still lost somewhere in Essos. She had been the first of the Starks to return. Winterfell had been only partially inhabited, its broken buildings covered with sheets of ice, roofs fallen in with the weight of the snow. Her visit was meant to be brief – she had intended to return to White Harbour once she had seen the castle. 

The knights of the Vale who had accompanied her managed to clear a path to the Godswood. The heat of the springs kept the ground clear. She had walked to the heart tree, reached out and touched the white bark. And she had heard Bran’s voice, like a whisper on the wind. _Sansa. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell._ She had gone back to the knights, and told them that she would be staying.

She stretched out her hand again. This time she was ready for the shock. “Bran,” she whispered. Where are you?

The trees around her melted and ran like wax. For a moment she felt like she had actually fainted. But then the trunks became thick roots, and the dark sky overhead turned to the darkness of the roof of a cavern. There was the sound of running waters. And in front of her, a seat of weirwood roots, with a figure in it. She felt her vision blur again, but this time with tears. Bran had been a boy of eight the day she had ridden out of Winterfell, and she had not set eyes on him since. The figure enthroned amongst the roots was the size of a boy, but his face was that of a man. 

His eyes snapped open, and there was naked shock on his face. “Sansa. How … This shouldn’t be possible.”

She laughed. “On a day like this, is anything not possible? Oh, Bran, it is so good to see you.” The walls were starting to blur and fade. “I love you.”

“Sansa, wait, stop—“

“I can’t hold on. I’ll see you again, through the trees.” She clasped her hands together. “Oh, Bran, I have so much to tell you!”

And then he was gone. She sat back, gasping, then let herself fall back into the soft grass. She lay there, staring up into the night sky. The grass was still warm from the heat of the day, its scent thick in the air. 

She didn’t know how long it was before she became aware of another mind in the wood with her. _Jon,_ she thought, then realized her mistake. _Not Jon. How remarkable._

The pad of near-soundless feet came closer, and there was a sudden, overpowering odour of unwashed dog. A huge white muzzle with teeth as long as her thumbs came into view above her.

“Hello Ghost. You are a long way from the Wall.”

The direwolf looked down at her, then sniffed vigorously. 

“I’m all right,” she said. She spread her arms out to show she was uninjured. Ghost let out a deep sigh. Then he blinked, and the feeling of Jon’s presence receded.

The direwolf flopped down on the ground next to her, his tongue lolling out. Sansa rolled onto her side. She reached out and stroked the fur of Ghost’s neck. He leaned into her touch. “Did bad Jon make you run all the way from the Wall to King’s Landing? He did, didn’t he? He’s so mean to you.” 

Ghost let out the sigh of a faithful misunderstood direwolf. He put his face on his paws. They lay together, Sansa idely stroking Ghost’s fur, until she heard a heavier tread approaching.

Sansa scrambled to her feet. Jon was still dressed for riding. “Sansa, you … did he …”He hurried to her and grabbed her upper arms, looking intently at her. 

“I’m fine,” she told him. “Just fine. I’m good. Wonderful. Terrible. I don’t even know. But I’m fine.”

Jon let out a gasp of relief, sounding remarkably like his wolf. He took her in his arms and held her against his chest. It was too tight, and she almost couldn’t breathe, but she didn’t care. She hugged him back.

“What happened?”

“I stabbed him.”

Jon let go of her arms, stepped back, and ran his hands through his already-dishevelled hair. “I only rode to the city gates and back! What …” Jon’s hand tightened until he was grabbing a fistful of hair. “What were you thinking?” He let go of his hair, leaving half of it sticking up straight on top of his head. Sansa had to force herself not to burst out laughing.

“Is he going to live?” 

Jon nodded curtly. “He’s going to live. So long as fever doesn’t set in, which it may. You aren’t very good at stabbing people, thankfully.” 

“You could give me lessons?”

“NO! And we are leaving. Now.” He glanced at Ghost, and the wolf loped away in the direction of the gate. 

Jon made no move to follow him. She realized that he was carrying some sort of harness of straps in one hand. It wasn’t until he held it up to her torso and began tightening some and loosening others, that she suddenly realized what he intended. She gasped. 

“Jon, no, I can’t. I’ll fall, you’ll let me fall. Elia Sand prepared that harness, she’s Arianne’s cousin, if I die, Arianne might be able to remain Queen. She’ll want me to fall.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you. Elia hasn’t touched this since she prepared it for Tyrion’s flight. Just a short flight, just as far as the ship.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “Sansa, we need to go, quickly. You have to trust me.”

 _I don’t trust anyone_. But she had no choice, so she blinked back tears and nodded. By force of will, she held herself still as Jon fitted the harness around her. She stared at the trees, at the tiny weirwood sapling. There were tiny streaks of black running up the white bark; she hadn’t noticed those before and she wondered if the tree was sick. She hoped that the gardeners would tend to it. 

Viserion came to the clearing in a flurry of wings and scales, teeth and talons. She let Jon lift her into place on the dragon’s back. She wasn’t afraid. _I have known more fearsome dragons than this._ She let Jon strap her into the dragon’s harness. The beast’s scales were hot against her bare toes. _I have flown before,_ she thought. _But this is the first time I risk falling._

Jon eased into place behind her. “You have to stay close to me,” he said. “Keep your body close and still. Balancing the weight is very important to the dragon in flight.” Viserion gathered himself and sprung into the air.

It was terrifying and exhilarating, and she wanted to shriek. Jon’s arms were around her, and she pressed back against him. Viserion’s wings flapped. They were the size of the sails of a boat. The wind whipped through her hair. 

There was another scaled body, another set of huge wings, in the air with them. Rhaegal was keeping pace with Viserion. Aegon’s dragon was watching her. He let out a plaintive cry, like a lost child. On sudden impulse, Sansa stretched her mind out towards him, trying to touch the dragon’s thoughts.

What she found was unlike anything she had sensed before in the mind of an animal. It was as if Rhaegal was encased in a ball of glass, hard and impenetrable. _The spell,_ she thought in wonder. _What binds him to Aegon, waking or sleeping. So Aegon is alive._ She pulled her thoughts back.

Rhaegal kept to the air as Viserion landed on the docks. They seemed deserted but for a few awestruck sailors. Jon unbuckled her, and caught her as she near fell from Viserion’s back.

The royal flagship was moored at the end of the pier. Jon hustled her onboard. He spoke briefly to the captain, confirming that Sansa’s things were onboard, and they were not too late for the evening tide. The captain looked to her. Did the lady wish to depart immediately?

She did.

Jon paced as the sailors prepared the ship for departure. Sansa sat by the bow. As the sailors were preparing to unfasten the mooring ropes, Ghost appeared from the darkness, panting heavily. He leapt the gunnel in one smooth move and landed on the deck.

“Good boy,” Jon said, touching his shoulder. 

The ship pulled away, the only sound of the oars. As they moved out into the waters of the Bay, and there was no sign of pursuit, Sansa felt herself relax. She closed her eyes. Then she opened them again. Jon was standing in front of her, Ghost by his side. He looked very much like her father. 

He looked very much like her father when he was about to give her a scolding. Sansa found herself sitting up straighter.

“I’m not angry because you stabbed him,” Jon said quietly. “But you could have been killed. Not executed. Killed then and there. Never, ever bring weapons into a situation unless you know what you are doing.” Ghost, at his side, let out a deep exasperated sigh. “Sansa, what happened? What did he do?”

“It was nothing,” she said. “All he wanted was a bit of humiliation, for me to …” she gestured with a fist to her mouth. “But … he said he would take my baby when it was born, have it raised elsewhere while he gives me another.”

Jon looked revolted, and then furious. He spun against the railing and let out a string of profanity. 

“Language!”

Jon rounded on her. “Stabbing! Stupid stabbing! Stabbing beats swearing!” He paced across the deck, but he didn’t swear again, so Sansa marked that down as a victory. “I don’t mind he was stabbed. We could have stabbed him together. I would have held him down while you stabbed him. I have knives to lend! Good, sharp knives.” He stopped and shook his head. “The only reason that – Aegon – is still alive is because you wanted to marry him and secure your child’s position in the inheritance.”

“Well, I still need to marry him,” she said. “Nothing has changed, Jon.” But it wasn’t true. _Everything has changed. Everything. The world is new and it is glorious._

And then: _I nearly completely messed up everything._

And … _if Jon hadn’t been here, what would have happened to me? What a risk I took, what a terrible foolish risk._ Dispute the warmth of the evening, she felt herself shiver. 

She watched Jon as he threw his hands up in wordless exasperation, as he ranted about how she had endangered herself. 

_It is sweet to have you here, to know that you would aid me, Jon. But I cannot rely on your protection. It is too late for a hero in my story._

“So what now?” she asked him. 

“Now we go to Dragonstone.” Jon said. “Pretend everything is OK. The council will say Aegon is in retreat with the High Septon, receiving counsel and offering prayers before he goes to Summerhall. And we will figure out what to do. Together. No more going off and trying to kill people all by yourself.”

She forced herself to keep a smile on her face, to nod as if in agreement. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I … I never meant to hurt anyone. Even Aegon. It was just that I couldn’t bear it any more.”

Jon’s face softened. “I know, Sansa. I’m the one who should be sorry. About … about everything.”

 _Why do you have to keep making me care, Jon?_ She wanted to weep. _I have to be strong. I have to protect this child. My son._ She thought of her visions of the dark haired boy who looked so much like Jon, like her father. _Why do you make me remember that I love you? I can’t love, not anyone except this child. I wouldn’t know how._

But you make me remember that I did once. 

She took a breath. “I felt the baby move.”

“Oh,” he looked stunned, like the idea of such a thing happening had never crossed his mind. “That’s … that’s …”

“Marya said this is about the time to expect it. It is a normal thing,” she hastened to reassure him. “It means the baby is healthy.”

She was shocked to see sudden tears in his eyes. “That was not what I meant. That is wonderful, Sansa.” He hesitated. “Isn’t it?”

Sansa nodded. “I thought you should know. After all, this child is your niece or nephew. Twice, in truth.”

Jon flinched, and looked down. Sansa bit her lip, regretting her words. “I’m sorry, Jon.”

“No, it is true. Aegon is my brother. My blood. When I met him at the Eyrie, I felt it. There is a part of us that is alike.” His eyes were sad.

 _No. You will not feel like that. Not today, on this day of all days._ “I know. That means that when this child is born, if it has Aegon’s smile, it will also have yours.” She stood and held out her hand to him. Jon hesitated.

Viserion soared overhead, Rhaegal flashing by behind him. Jon swallowed, and took her hand, as the cries of the dragons sounded across the dark waters around them.


	31. Children, And What They Will Become

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Wendynerd for beta-reading!

Dragonstone.  The island of wonders.  Kings.  The bastards of Kings.  Dragons of flesh.  Dragons of stone.  A firey mountain.  Hidden coves of deep blue waters.  Secret rooms decorated with Valyrian mosaics.  Maps.  Books.  Scrolls.  Stairs worn smooth with the passage of five hundred years of feet.  Balconies overlooking the ocean.  Garden rooms sheltered from the winds.  And in the heart of the great fortress, a room with a vast painted table made in the likeness of the seven kingdoms of Westeros. 

Jon Snow was looking for that room, but the corridors seemed to twist around him.  Every room he entered was empty.  _Where are all the people?_  He came face to face with a likeness of a dragon carved out of marble.  Its shining lips moved.  _You do not belong here. This is not your place.  You are no Targaryen._ He opened his mouth to speak to it, but it turned back to a statue and gave him no answers. 

And then he heard the scratching of the walking dead behind him.  He began to run, opening door after door, only to find no-one.  _Where are they?_   _Did they all run?  Are they safe?_  

He opened a door and found the chamber in front of him.  He slammed the door, locked and barred it.  Would that be enough?  Surely it would be enough.  But he could hear the drag of dead feet coming closer.  

“Why are you here?” 

He spun.  The painted table was spread out in front of him, over 50 feet long.  Jon was standing by Dorne, looking north to King’s Landing, the Neck, Winterfell, and at the other end of the room, the Wall.  There was a darkness beyond it that moved, like a hive of ants. 

A woman was sitting in the Conqueror’s seat, placed at the location of Dragonstone island.  Her face was calm, curious, implacable.  She had something of the look of Daenerys about her, Jon thought.  Not just her features – although there was a likeness there – but that resolute, fearless look that Dany had worn when they stood on the Wall together, planning the next battle.  It had been on her face the morning she mounted Drogon, never looking back, and flew to her death.

Across her knees was the long steel rod Aegon had used to move the pieces about.  Jon looked at the table.  The pieces were moving.  He saw a tiny rider on a sandsteed coursing across the sands of Dorne, with a small army moving behind him.  An escort bearing the banners of the stag was riding west from Storm’s End, and others with golden roses were coming east from Highgarden.  The place they were converging on was empty on this map: Summerhall had been built long after Aegon’s day.  There was no King’s Landing, and the cities of Lannisport, White Harbour, and Gulltown were mere towns.   

Jon walked the length of the table, taking the opposite side to the woman.  Her eyes tracked him as he passed Oldtown, the only city on the map, then Casterly Rock.  Tiny people moved through the villages and holdfasts.  He came closest to her as he passed between the Iron Islands and the Neck.  Her eyes were a deep blue, her hair silver.  There was something of Aegon in her face, as well as Dany.  As he came closer, he could see the wood of the high chair behind her – she was like mist.  _She looks like one of the Others made human,_ he thought, and shivered.

She spun the twenty-foot long rod over her head, her move graceful and assured, then extended it so that it blocked Jon’s way further north.  “The realm is not yours, Jon Snow.  You are no Targaryen.”

He looked north, across Cape Kraken, the Saltspear, and the Barrowlands.  He looked to Winterfell, to those familiar walls and towers, to the stone kings hidden away in the deep crypt.  He found his gaze drawn back to the woman.

“Winterfell is not yours, Jon Snow.  You are no Stark.”  But her voice was gentler this time, and her blue eyes – the only soft thing about her – were sad.

“Look north, Jon.  What do you see?”  A man stood opposite Jon, the north dividing them.  He had dark hair, and the look of the Starks, but his eyes were violet. 

“Snow!  Snow!” The woman called out.  Jon jumped, and she let out a peal of laughter. 

The man with the violet eyes winced.  “My sister has an odd sense of humour.  If she shows it, that means she likes you.  Maybe.”  The rod whistled through the air a finger’s width above the man’s head.  He did not even blink, but when it was passed he let out a sigh.  “Or she’s decided to kill you and that what you think no longer matters.  Your choice.”

Jon continued north, passing Winterfell by, until he stood by the silver ribbon of the Wall.  There were tiny black-clad figures by each of the nineteen castles. At Castle Black, he could see the fat figure of Samwell Tarly, his maester’s robs flapping. 

And to the north, the living dead were marching.  At the door to the chamber of the painted table, he could hear the scratching. 

“Sam!  Sam!  Can you hear me?”

He cast about the northern half of the table.  Tiny figures were heading towards the Wall now.  Ships were docking at Eastwatch.  But Jon could not see what he was looking for.  He ran back to the south, scanning the kingdoms as he ran round the table.  Nothing.  Not even at King’s Landing.  Then he raised his eyes to where the woman was perched in the seat Aegon the Conqueror had placed at the exact location of Dragonstone, the seat high above the table where he had planned the invasion of Westeros.  

The figurines of the three dragons, Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes rested in the woman’s lap.  They were made out of precious metals and they eyes were jewels.  Jon looked up at her and stretched out his hand. 

“Please.  I need them.” 

She made no answer, just spun the rod deftly, and placed in neatly into its holder by the side of the chair.

“You don’t need them, Uncle Jon,” the man said.  

Jon stared at him incredulously.  “Don’t you understand? The dead are coming.  Everyone is depending on me.  Maybe I am not a Targaryen, not in truth, but I am a dragonlord.”

“Aren’t we all?” The woman’s voice was sharp and mocking.  She stroked the back of one of the tiny metal creatures in her lap, and it crooned to her.

At the Wall, the dead were swarming over the defenders, spilling south.  _All those people,_ Jon thought, despairing.  At the door, there was a deep, heavy thud.

“Please,” he said again. 

“Are you sure this is what you want?”  the woman asked.

“It is unwise,” the man added. 

“There is no other choice.  Please.”

The woman lifted the dragons and threw them into the air.  They soared above the painted table, and unleashed their fire on the legions of the undead.  They scurried about, burning.  Jon looked closer.  They were ants, just ants.  Not the walking dead at all.  But the fires were still burning.  The table was alight.

There was no way to hold back the flames.  They raced south towards the Neck.  Winterfell was burning, and White Harbour.  Jon thrust his hands into the fires in a desperate attempt to hold them back.  His hands withered and blackened, and he screamed –

He woke up with a gasp, his body covered in sweat.  There was a moment of heart-churning panic as he clawed at the furs until he saw the pale unmarred skin of his hands.  He struggled clear of the bedclothes. 

“Damn it,” he breathed, his hands clenching into fists.  _All that has happened, and I am still dreaming of the living dead._ He dashed the sweat from his eyes and waited for his breathing to slow.  _Useless.  I can’t even control my own mind._   He took another breath, and willed the dark thoughts away. 

It had been a strange dream, though.  The details remained crisp in him mind, even as the fear faded.  The dark-haired man with gentle eyes, and the cold woman sitting in Aegon’s high seat.   _Uncle Jon, he called me.  And the woman his sister._

It was pre-dawn.  Jon got out of the bed and paced to the balcony.  The ocean was a dark mass below him, but there was a hint of light in the sky.  Far on the Western horizon he could see the dark outline of the mainland of Westeros. 

Viserion had taken to hunting high on the slopes of the smoky mountain.  Jon touched his mind – the dragon was slumbering in a hollow near the crater, where the rocks were warm to the touch.  The carcasses of goats surrounded him and his belly was full of meat.  Jon wondered how many dragons had lain where Viserion rested now over the last four centuries.

 _You are no Targaryen._   The woman’s voice echoed in his mind.

 _Daenerys thought differently, and she was the mother of dragons,_ Jon thought defiantly.  He ran his fingers over the stone railing of the balcony, and wondered if the Conqueror had done the same.  _I am blood of the dragon as much as Aegon, and more than Sansa’s child would be.  Children?  No, it was just a dream._  

He had heard other inhabitants of the castle complaining of unsettling dreams lately.  Margaery Tyrell had been heard to say that she hadn’t slept through the night since getting off the ship three weeks before.  So Jon supposed he was in good company.

But he thought, too, of the old dream he used to have of entering the crypts of Winterfell, of the stone kings turning their faces away.  _You are no Stark._

He reached for Ghost’s mind with greater caution than he had Viserion’s.  He missed the company of his wolf in the nights, but Sansa’s need had been greater.  Jon looked through his wolf’s eyes and he was relieved to see that his sister was asleep.  She had an uncanny knack for knowing when he was in his wolf, and she disliked Jon watching her.

But someone needed to.  They hadn’t made it to the island before she began receding back into herself, spending more time in the minds of animals than in her own body.  On Dragonstone, she had retreated to her chambers, refusing to see anyone unless it was unavoidable. _She distrusts her maids, the servants of the castle, the guards at the gate.  Everyone.  But then, she has reason to fear.  So why does it trouble me?  Is it only that I cannot reassure her?_

Through Ghost’s eyes, he watched Sansa shift in her sleep, pull the furs about herself, her shoulders hunched and legs curled in, a frown furrowing her brow.  The wolf nosed her hand, and she stilled, her breathing steadying as she slipped deeper into sleep.  Jon let himself detach from Ghost’s mind, leaving the wolf to stand guard.

He sighed, and rested his head in his hands as the light slowly brightened about him and the sea turned silver.  Finally, he raised his head.  A pink mist shrouded Westeros.  It looked so beautiful in the dawn. 

He took a breath of the morning air, released it.  _What I am to do?_ Through Ghost’s eyes, he looked about Sansa’s chamber.  Her partially finished wedding gown rested a on a stand in the corner.  It was a beautiful soft creation of ivory silk and some sort of soft material in the sleeves and hem, embroidered with seven-pointed stars for the Faith of the Seven.  Steel needles and pins were stuck into one of the stars on the bodice. 

 _Aegon has acted the part of a good ruler, or he did, at least.  Was he always twisted?  Or did the kingship, with all its privileges and pressures, with all its loneliness, did it warp him into what he is now?_   He thought of the woman from his dream, so cold and distant, except for the hints of softness in those blue eyes.  _What might Aegon’s daughter become?_

He looked out over the sea, lost in his thought.  A time passed before his mind registered what his eyes were seeing.  Three specks on the water.  Ships, running south before a trailing breeze.  Jon hurried to find his spyglass – an old friend from the war – and sighted on the lead ship.  He swore under his breath. 

The moon and falcon of house Arryn was flying from the mast.

He carefully covered the priceless lens with a soft linen cloth and stowed the device.  Slipping back into Ghost’s mind, he found that Sansa’s eyes were open, and she was lying in bed staring at the wall.  He nosed her until she sat up, then pointed his nose at his own quarters.

He dressed while he waited.  Aegon’s chamber was small, but beautifully appointed.  The walls were decorated with a mosaic showing Valyria.  Dragons soared in the air, and a sorcerer stood on the walls of a city, his silver hair cascading behind him.  Far below, near the floor, smallfolk pulled wagons and worked fields.  He had hung his swords on brackets – Longclaw and Dark Sister side by side.  The smoky darkness of the Valyrian steel stood in sharp contrast to the brilliant colours and metallic of the tiles.

Sansa, when she appeared, was dressed in a high necked and long sleeved wool gown, with a wrap overtop despite the warmth of the summer morning.  She went pale when Jon explained the problem. 

“I don’t want to see Robin.  I don’t want him to see me.”  Her hand went to her belly, where the curve was now pronounced, and she looked at the floor.  Tears welled up in her eyes.  “I don’t want him to see me like this.  Not until I am properly wed.”

“Then when he comes I will tell him no,” Jon said.  “Here on Dragonstone, you see nobody unless you wish.”

There was a moment of silence between them.  Sansa’s face was sad. 

“But--” she said.

Jon sighed.  “But,” he agreed.  “You will have to see him at some point.  Robin is your cousin, and the Lord of the Eyrie.  The Vale is close enough to the Crownlands for him to travel.  He will be expected to attend your wedding.”

She wrapped her arms around herself.  “I know.  I know.  Didn’t you tell him to stay in the Vale and do nothing?”

“Yes, but he hates me.”

“I just don’t understand.  This isn’t like Sweetrobin.  He never leaves the Vale – oh no.”  Her eyes went wide.  “Do you think Ermensande is with him?  She could have talked him into this.”

Jon hesitated.  “Sansa … Sweetrobin and Ermensande love you.”

She pulled her wrap tighter around herself.  She dashed the tears from her eyes and  she squared her shoulders.  “You are right.  I may need their support should anything go wrong in months ahead.  I must see them.”

 _That wasn’t what I meant at all._ But at least she had agreed to see someone.  _This is a good thing,_ he told himself. 

But he thought suddenly of the face of the woman from the dream, cold, distant, seated above her gentler brother on Aegon’s high seat.  She had looked like Aegon, as much as like Daenerys.  And now Jon saw an echo of that coldness on Sansa’s face. 

_She told me that her child’s future depends on the decisions she makes now._

_The decisions we all make._

 

*** 

 

Ghost was unusually excited by Jon’s side as they waited for the ship to come into dock.  Jon stroked his white fur.  “What is it, boy?”  Ghost replied with happiness, and impatient welcome. 

“But you don’t even know Robin or Ermensande.”  A bad feeling was creeping over Jon. 

Ghost continued to wag his tail.  As she ship came into dock, he ran to the edge and barked.  And from the ship, there was an answering bark – the deep call of one direwolf to another.  A black shape scrambled over the edge.  

_Oh, fuck.  Isn’t this just wonderful?_

Jon folded his arms, and waited.  Robert Arryn appeared at the drawbridge, then clearly hesitated.  Rickon appeared beside him, his red hair bright in the morning sun.  Neither of them seemed particularly inclined to be the first one down the drawbridge.

A high voice carried clearly over the water.  “Oh, let me go.  I’m ten.  What’s he going to do to me?” Ermensande’s brown hair became visible, followed by her face.  She smiled at Jon.  He didn’t smile back.

Shaggydog broke off cavorting with Ghost, and came to sit in front of Jon.  He sat down, his tail wrapped around his paws. 

In the end it was Lyanna Mormont who got off the ship first.  Jon waited until the four of them were lined up in front of him, Shaggydog at the end of the row, all wearing identically apprehensive expressions. 

Then Jon moved for the first time.  He looked from one end of the line to the other, then focused his glare on Robert Arryn. 

“I didn’t ask Rickon to come,” he said.  “I just wrote to him!  I thought he deserved to know –“

“—when we got the letter, Lyanna and I rode to White Harbour –“

“—we changed horses at the inns, it was fast –“

“—Rickon is Sansa’s brother, Robert and I thought he needed to know.  You should have told him—“

Jon held up his hand, and they all feel silent.  “What exactly do you all think you are going to accomplish?” 

There was a moment of dead silence.  Robert Arryn broke it.  “We intend to take Sansa home to Winterfell.”  He wet his lips.  “If Aegon Targaryen tries anything, we will fight.  If he wants a war, we’ll give him one.”

“The North is strongest in the summer,” Lyanna added.  “We will never stand for this.  Sansa is heir to Winterfell.  One word, and the north will rise.  This cannot be borne.” 

 Rickon touched her arm, his face dark.  On her other side, Robert Arryn seemed resolute, although there was a look to his face that suggested he had recently been weeping. 

“I control more of the Crownlands than is directly sworn to Aegon,” Ermensande said.  “The forces he can muster – we can win this.  We must.”  Her eyes were dry.  She stood far shorter than any of the others, but somehow she looked old beyond her years.

“Dragons can be killed,” said Rickon. 

Jon raised an eyebrow at that.  Rickon flushed, and Shaggydog let out a growl.  Ghost, standing by Jon’s side, huffed disapprovingly at his brother.  Jon put a hand reassuringly on his wolf’s back, as he reached out with his mind.

“It can be done,” Rickon insisted.   “I know the stories and the songs.  Brandon Snow had the right idea – when his brother Torrhen bent the knee to the Conqueror, he wanted to sneak into the Targaryen camp and slit the dragon’s throats.  In the Dance, the people of King’s Landing killed the dragons in the Dragonpit.”

Jon looked up as the downdraft from a pair of massive wings flattened Rickon’s hair.  Viserion landed behind him, and breathed heavily. 

The blood drained from Rickon’s face.  He stared straight forward.  “It … can be done,” he said.  But his tone was much less confident with the massive beast blowing hot air onto his neck.

“Rickon and Robert are going to declare their independence from the Iron Throne,” Ermensande chimed in.  Both the boys flinched as she continued, “they’re going to make the Vale and the North independent kingdoms.”

There was a dead silence then.  All four of the youngesters looked at Jon, waiting for his reaction.  Shaggydog whined.  Jon stared back.

Robert Arryn looked searchingly at Jon.  He was the oldest, the most introspective, and Jon suspected, the cleverest of the four.  “Is there anything you need to tell us?”he asked quietly.  The other three looked to him.

Jon silently pointed to the horses that were saddled and waiting to carry the visitors up to the fortress.  He walked past them, swung himself onto Viserion’s back, and took to the air, leaving them gaping after him.

As Viserion circled on a thermal high above the island, Jon watched the horses take the slow winding path up the hillside.  There was plenty of time to get back to the fortress ahead of the little party. 

_They don’t know.  Not about the marriage, or the pregnancy.  They don’t know how narrow our options are.  Sansa was right – I wish I could send them away.  I wish they didn’t have to be told.  They are so young, even Robert Arryn.  Just children._

Viserion glided through the air.  Jon patted his neck, feeling the hard scales, the muscle beneath, the heat that rose from his body.  Huge, but nothing compared to what the dragon could someday become.

_But children can be dangerous.  They can do harm.  And someday, they will grow to become adults.  And what will happen then?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is interested I am loosely basing Sansa's wedding dress on the Norman Hartnell gown Margaret Whigham wore in 1933: http://museum.wa.gov.au/whats-on/unveiled/highlights/wedding-dress-norman-hartnell-1933.


	32. The Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Wendynerd and Tommyginger for beta reading and comments. Some of the dialogue here is adapted from suggestions they both have made to me -- I am very much indebted.

_In the light of the Seven, whose blessings I do beseech on my soul as my body is interred in the earth, I Tyrion of House Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Councillor to King Aegon VI, Hand of the King, do dispose and account for my worldly goods in the manner following. …._

_Item, I give and bequeath to Lady Sansa of House Stark, called my wife these past ten years, my second-best cyvasse set._

***

There had been no board with the set when it had been delivered to her. At Dragonstone, Sansa had set the pieces on the stone window-sill of her chambers. They were pretty things – the white side made of alabaster that was almost translucent in the sun, the black of polished onyx that reflected the light. The carving had been skilfully done, but it was far less rich than the set Tyrion had used as the Hand of the King. The pieces of that one had been solid gold tinted white and rose and inlaid with gems. This lesser set had been a gift to Tyrion from his uncle Gerion, brought back from one of the man’s travels. It had been the only thing she received under his will.

 _I don’t understand._ Tyrion had offered her lessons in the game after she took up residence with him in King’s Landing. She had declined. Cyvasse had become popular in the north, during the years of the last Winter. Arya and Rickon had both learned. Jon was an excellent player. Sansa had found it boring. She preferred to spend her time sewing or playing her harp _. Sad little pieces on their confined little board. Why would he give me this?_

She had expected to grieve Tyrion publically, ritually, in the Great Sept of Balor. But his lying out had occurred while she stared at the wall of her chambers, silent, refusing food. _I don’t understand._ She had been twelve when she was wed to him, and twenty-two when the High Septon declared a decade of marraige to have never occurred with the stroke of a pen. Now she was left with an unworn mourning dress and his childhood cyvasse set, and not even the comfort of ritual to tell her what to feel. _I don’t understand you, Tyrion. I never did._

She rearranged the pieces so that the white dragon and the black faced each other in the middle of the sill. On impulse, she unfastened her mockingbird pin – she had to take it off now that Sweetrobin was here, in any event – and put it between the two dragons. It was little, and looked a bit silly against the two hulking pieces, and it wasn’t supposed to be part of the game. She smiled at the sight, then pushed the bird away out of sight behind one of the catapults.    

There was a knock on the door. Her maid hastened to answer it. Sansa sighed and turned her eyes away from the line of little figurines. She had retreated into her chambers – Visenya’s rooms – before any of the youngsters had set foot in the fortress. _Even here, I am never alone. What do they all fear? That I would flee, or do myself harm?_ She ran a hand over her belly.

The maid escorted Jon in, and vanished at Sansa’s dismissal.

“I’ve spoken to them – and told them everything. Rickon wants to see you,” Jon told her. “He’s … upset, but he promises that he will behave. No shouting or silly plans, and he will try not to distress you. You don’t have to agree. Or if you will see him, it doesn’t have to be today.”

Sansa closed her eyes and pulled her wrap more tightly around herself. She wrapped her arms protectively about her waist.

Jon stood silently.

 _He’s waiting for me to answer._ _Rickon is Lord of Winterfell, and he is to be head of the family when he comes of age and into his responsibilities. Jon was right. I cannot put this off forever._

But when Rickon walked in, looking shy and awkward, she found her jaw dropping. When she had last seen her younger brother, he had been half a head shorter than her. But it had been a year. Now she was looking up at him. And when he spoke, his voice was the deep voice of a man.

“Sansa … I …” He stopped, looking at a loss for words. He stood mute. Jon, who was standing behind him in the door, looked to Sansa. She shook her head at him. Jon gave a soundless sigh, and stepped back into the hall, closing the door behind himself. Ghost stayed on her side of the door.

Shaggydog broke from Rickon’s side, crossed the room. He pressed himself into her making a whining sound that was almost like a human crying. She sank down onto her knees and wrapped her arms around the wolf, burying her face in his fur. Shaggydog leaned into her, almost knocking her over. “Careful,” she told him.

The wolf moved back, then began vigorously sniffing her. Sansa held still.

She looked to Rickon, who was still standing mute, his eyes far away. Unlike with Jon, there was no sense of his presence or absence in Shaggydog. _Rickon and his wolf have been bonded as long as either of them can remember. They live in each other’s minds. Perhaps they do not even know where the one ends and the other begins._

Putting a hand on Shaggydog’s head, she gently guided his nose down to her belly. “That is my baby,” she told him.

Shaggy jerked back. His eyes fixed on her. He began to growl. Sansa put her hands on either side of his head. “No,” she told him.

Everyone at Winterfell had been terrified when she dared to handle Shaggydog, but Sansa had never once feared that the wolf would hurt her. In the long dark and cold at Winterfell, the wolf had come to her for affection before the boy did. She had become accustomed to those green eyes staring out of the darkness at her, or that black shape a mere outline in the shadows in the empty halls.

Then one night she had entered her bedchamber and was shedding her furs when a voice came. “Are you a wolf?”

Rickon had been sitting on her bed. Shaggydog was beside him, laying curled up in the bedclothes, the firelight shining on his black fur.

“No,” she had told him.

“I think you are a wolf.”

“I had a wolf once. Shaggydog’s littermate. Her name was Lady.”

Rickon had given her a look of contempt, as if no person had ever been so stupid. “Wolves don’t have names. They don’t need names.”

“Maybe not. But they have brothers and sisters.” Rickon had watched her as she crossed the room to sit beside him. She reached out a hand to stroke Shaggy’s flank.

“He doesn’t like it when people touch him. He’s strong and fierce.”

“I know he is. But he can be strong and fierce and still like having his fur rubbed.”

Rickon didn’t touch her, not that night. But after a time he laid down and slept in her bed, his wolf watching over him. He had looked so young then, she remembered. Just a boy who had not yet seen eight years, his cheeks smooth and his form tiny. He had looked so vulnerable.

Now he towered over her, with the body of a man. _But he’s still a boy in so many ways._

“I’m sorry,” Rickon said. “Jon told us that our being here … I just … I have to hear it from you. That this is what you want.”

“It is.”

There was a sudden shift in his features, and Rickon looked years older. Sansa’s breath caught and she found herself fighting back tears. “You look like Robb,” she said. “I never saw it before."

Rickon hesitated. “Arya has said the same thing. And Jon.” He looked into the distance. “I do remember Robb. Just flashes. He was kind to me. I used to cling to his leg. But then he was gone. Osha was good to me, before the wights killed her on Skagos. I have no memory of Eddard or Catelyn Stark. You are the closest thing I to a mother I’ve ever known.”

 “I love you, too, Rickon,” she said. _And I do._ _But things would be so much easier if I didn’t have to worry about you, too. I’m tired. So very tired._ “But Rickon, there must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”

“What kind of brother would I be if I didn’t come? Bran watches over the north, he is the true King of Winter, no matter who holds the title or Lord Paramount or who sits that cursed Iron Throne. I just … I don’t understand what is so wrong with our plan. We all get to go home, to Winterfell. You can have this baby,” his voice cracked on the word. “I’ll legitimize it, declare it my heir after you until I have a child of my own. It isn’t too late.”

For a moment she felt like she could not breathe _. Not too late. To go home to Winterfell_. Deliver this child in the bedchamber that had belonged to her mother, with a maester sworn to her family and attendants who loved her. Perhaps even Arya would be there, to hold her hand and watch over her. Perhaps if Arya was there, she wouldn’t be afraid. Sansa shivered. _I have been afraid for so long._

For a moment she imagined the dark haired man she had spoken to in that vision kneeling before the heart tree, the silver haired girl she had glimpsed in the Red Keep's Godswood practicing archery in the courtyard.  She thought of both of them happy and safe at Winterfell.

She forced that thought away. _I thought I was safe in the North, but there is no haven. No safety unless I make it. I never wanted power. I wanted to be loved, loved for myself. I wanted to wed a good man and give him sons. I wanted my children to grow up secure and happy. It isn’t too late, not for them. And the path to that end goes to King’s Landing. It goes to the Iron Throne._

“I didn’t make this world. But I have to live in it as best as I am able.”

“This is bull--” Rickon stopped himself from using Language, and shook his head. “Jon should have told me. Both of you should have told me. I know I haven’t … I’m not … but I’m supposed to be the Lord of Winterfell.”

“Rickon … you were thousands of miles away,” Sansa said. She found her breath starting to come faster. Ghost was on his feet. “What did you expect, for him to spend weeks flying north to talk to you in person? Or send a letter blind, and trust you to act sensibly – and not rush off on some half-baked scheme. Which is exactly what you did. Where is Loras Tyrell, who happens to be the younger brother of the Lord Paramount of the Reach,by the way? In a sky cell?”

Rickon looked indignant. “No! We had him locked in a very nice comfortable tower.   The guards had orders to let him out when we a few days away.”

Sansa sighed. “And Uncle Edmure?” She found herself on her feet, her arms wrapped around her waist. How did that happen?

“I left him at Winterfell. No, he doesn’t know. He’d have tried to stop me. I sent a raven from White Harbour telling him where I was.”

 _Poor Edmure likely spent days in panicked searching_. He had been distressed that nobody knew where Arya was, and he had mourned Bran, whom he believed dead, along with Robb and his sisters. Now he thought he had lost Rickon. _He loves his nieces and nephews._

“Sansa … let us fight.” Rickon’s eyes were bright.

Without realizing she had moved, she found she had backed away a few paces. She felt a warm body next to her, and she thought for a moment it was Shaggy, then realized that Ghost had crossed the room to be at her side.

“What is the point of this family, of the power we wield, if we do not use it to protect the ones we love?” Rickon reached to his hip, where Oathkeeper rested. He drew the sword, held it out flat in front of her. “Sansa, let me fight for you.”

The sunlight gleamed off the blade. The light was bright, but Valyrian steel had a smoky darkness, and the crimson tint to the steel make it look like it had been dipped in blood. It’s lost twin, Widow’s Wail, had looked the same when she had seen it in Joffrey Baratheon’s hand.

Sansa stared at the sword. All I would have to do is ask, and he would fight for me. _Four months ago I was terrified at the prospect of another war._ Then she looked at Rickson’s face, into the eyes of the brother she loved. _Who am I that I can even think of sending him to the battlefield?_ Her hands were shaking. She twisted them into her skirts. It was as if the sword was draining all the light from the room.

“Rickon, this would be a good time for you to go and talk to the others,” Jon said.

She hadn’t even heard the door open.

Jon was standing beside Rickon, looking up at him with grim eyes. Ghost was at his side. Rickon looked angry and defiant, and Shaggydog growled.

“We will talk again tomorrow,” Sansa told Rickon, keeping her tone gentle. “There is plenty of time.”

“Until what? Until you go back to King’s Landing to marry that black hearted bastard, and spend the rest of your life bearing his children?” Rickon asked, his face dark with anger.

Sansa put her hand on her belly. She could feel the life moving within. _So tiny and vulnerable_. “Rickon, please. Don’t make this more difficult than it already is.”

Then Rickon looked at Sansa. The anger drained from his face. Shaggy bowed his head. “I … I should speak to the others."

The door closed behind him. Sansa sat down in the window seat, and closed her eyes. _He’s still here. Of course he is. Just like he stayed outside the door all the time Rickon was in the room._ “You don’t need to stay, Jon.”

“I could make some mulled wine. Jeor Mormont’s special recipe.”

“You know how to make mulled wine?”

Jon paused, and there was a note of hurt in his voice. “I can. I also sew well enough for all practical purposes, and cook. I was assigned to the stewards in the Watch, if you didn’t know.”

As a point of fact, Sansa hadn’t known. She was mildly impressed in spite of herself. Septa Mordane had insisted the Stark girls visit the castle kitchens on occasion, and she had since managed both the Eyrie and Winterfell, so she understood in vague general terms what went on in kitchens and butteries, but Sansa had not cooked a thing in her life and she had no expectation that circumstances would ever require her to do so. This gave the prospect of applying searing heat and sharp knives to food a dangerous allure.

_Podrick knew how to cook._

The thought came to her suddenly, with a sharp stab of pain. He had told her with stories of roasting (often ill-gotten) meat with other itinerant knights before tourneys, and feasting on inn-keeper’s best together after, whomever having won paying the bill. Those fancy feasts after had been wonderful, he said, but the poor meals before had been eaten with more relish. He had told her of cooking game for Brienne of Tarth when he squired for her on their quest. And before that, of eating the best food of his life when he had the scraps off Tyrion Lannister’s table.

She imagined Podrick in Essos, eating at some common house. Or perhaps there was a woman, she cooking for him or he for her. _I want that,_ she told herself. _I want him to be content. To have a life where he is safe and loved._ The babe kicked, and she ran her hand across her belly. _Just … just let him be happy and safe._

There was a sound. Jon. Jon and Ghost: still here. She kept her eyes resolutely closed. _Just go away. Let me be. I am tired, and I have a long path ahead._

“Do you want me to leave?”

“If I did, would you?”

“Yes. But, Sansa, if you wanted to talk--”

There was a pause. She opened her eyes and looked over at him. Jon looked abashed.

“That wasn’t my best approach,” he said. “I’m much better in the common room at Castle Black, when I see some man staring into his cup of ale. I have a routine.”

Despite herself, she found a smile on her lips. “Do you?”

“I’m good, if you don’t believe me. I slide in, give a silent nod, drink from my own tankard …” He took a sip from the cup of wine he had somehow acquired. “Then I sit there and wait for them to stark talking.”

“This works a lot for you,” she said, letter her scepticism show. She shook her head. “I don’t want to talk. What would be the use? Do you think I will cry? I won’t: I wept at Harrenhal, and it did me no good.” _My pain is like a rip tide waiting to carry me out to the ocean to drown. I need to stay safe on the shore. I’m no use drowned_ “But—“ she said. _Perhaps it is time. I’ve been putting this off long enough. I am a Stark of Winterfell. I can be brave._ “There are things we need to talk about. We have never been honest with each other, you and I.”

“I haven’t lied to you.” Jon looked startled and hurt.

“Not asking questions is its own form of dishonesty. I’ve lied to you, lied by omission. And you’ve lied to me, too. All those years since the war, when we both pretended to each other that we were all right, what was that if not lying? I have questions for you, if you will answer them.”

 _That was a lie in itself_ , she knew that even as she said it. _I have one question for you, Jon Snow. The one question that everything may ride on._

Jon nodded, his eyes shadowed. “I’ll answer your questions, truthfully, if you answer mine.”

“How did you know what had happened to me?   How did you know that … that I had been raped.” She paused, amazed that the word had slipped out. _Raped. I was raped_. It had not been so hard to say, and she felt lighter for it. _Braver. It is just a word, a word for a thing that happened. That happened to me. Raped._

She forged on. “You didn’t have any evidence, I know that. I was careful to make sure that you had no proof, other than Ermensande – and she didn’t know enough.”

Jon looked down, and closed his eyes for a moment. “Your reactions, the way you wrapped your arms around yourself, that look on your face. I had seen it before. In the Night’s Watch ... men and boys can be abused as much as women.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Do you know—“

“I did know that, yes.” She swallowed back the bitter memory of her years with Petyr, watching him plie men like Lyn Corbray with boys and gold. And killing.

Jon’s face was bleak. “I didn’t. Not when I became Lord Commander. I went through the ranks so fast – I was little more than a boy. And when I was a new recruit, I had a huge direwolf. That protected me and my friends. Later, I learned that getting a visit in the night was practically to be expected for new recruits. Maybe ... Jeor Mormont never knew. Or he would have told me in his time, if he’d lived. There was nothing about it in his notes about all the rapers and monsters in the Watch.”

“So when the Wildlings came through the wall, I demanded a hundred boys as hostages. I was so careful,” he let out a laugh that was more than half sob. “No girls. I was so careful, no girls. It never occurred to me that the boys might be in danger.”

“How did you find out?"

“I did a surprise barracks inspection. Walked in on …” He stopped. Stared at his wine.   Words unspoken, unspeakable, hovered on his lips, echoed about the room. “I executed the man with Longclaw. It didn’t make a difference. How could it have made a difference? Not to the boy, not to the other boys, not to the other men who had done the same. Not to anything. It was a fortnight before Daenerys showed up.” Jon took a swallow of his wine. “After the war, I asked questions, tried to do what I could for the survivors. I learned the look.”

“It could have made a difference. You don’t know that. How could it not have made a difference?” She shook her head, suddenly furious with Jon. “How dare you say it didn’t make a difference?”

Jon dropped his eyes. “I just … I wanted more. I wanted to make it not to have happened.”

The look on his face near broke her heart. She thought suddenly of the boy she had known at Winterfell, so lighthearted and funny, so innocent. _He was just a child. Poor Jon, to have to know those things so young._

“Your turn,” she said.

“What happened to you at Harrenhal, when you were brought back?”

The question was like a blow to the gut. She wrapped her arms around herself. “They killed Joram,” she told him. “Lord Ashby and his wife. I didn’t even know until the next morning – she gave me something to drink, examined me – I should never have let her do it. The thing was … they weren’t Aegon’s. They were just loyal Tully bannermen, thinking they were doing the right thing. Preserving my reputation, if not my honour. I think they were even proud of themselves for it. Then they packed me up and shipped me back to court.” She took a shaky breath. “They would have helped me if I had asked for it. Maybe. Or maybe they would have gone to Edmure, and it would have made things a thousand times worse. But I had already gotten one innocent man killed.”

It was strange to remember Joram, as if the woman who had known him was a character in a story. In those first days after his death, it had been too painful to think of him. She thought of his sense of fun, his wry sense of humour, his complete disregard for the proprieties that she lived her life by. He never liked to call himself Ironborn, but there was something of that spirit in him. _They do not hold their kings in such veneration as we on the mainland. He never feared to speak the truth to me. He was a good man._

 _Or was he?_ She wondered, and her stomach twisted in fear. When she had gone to him to aid in her escape, he had never hesitated to help her. He had seemed kind to her in those desperate days. _But when did I ever know who to trust? What if he had only been waiting? Or he had changed his mind once we reached the coast, or the islands? Or what if he just decided, one night, that it did not matter what he did to me, that I could never say a word. I was such as trusting fool._

 _And what would have happened if I had made it to Pyke safely? Theon sits the Seastone chair, but would he have truly risked his people’s lives by sheltering me?_ _He helped Jeyne. Would he have helped me?_ She had been so sure, when she had run. She wasn’t anymore.

“Do you want Aegon dead?”

“Do I want it, or does he deserve it?” She ran her hand over her belly as the child moved. “Aegon is a threat to me. While he lives I will never be able to have peace. Even if he was imprisoned ... Tyrion said to me once that he’s no Joffrey, no Aerys.” She glanced at the pieces. There were many things you never saw, Tyrion. “And that is true enough. He can be cruel, but he’s not irrational. There was a time I feared for your life, but he’s not a killer.”

Behind her, she could hear Jon stir in his chair. There was a long silence. Then he spoke. “Sansa, I wasn’t asking if he should be killed. Do you want him dead?”

She took a breath. _Do you think I am afraid to say it, Jon?_    “There was a time I was half in love with him.”

The words fell into a deep silence between them. Sansa found herself talking, the words spilling out.

“From the moment I saw him, that day I arrived in court. Everybody knew. I must have looked like such a fool. The silliest little twit in the Seven Kingdoms, falling all over herself. I used to pick out dresses and think of how he would like me when I wore them. Every time he looked at me, I could feel myself blushing. But it was not just his looks.”

It all felt so long ago, like it had happened in another lifetime, to another girl.

“I felt … as if I mattered to him. Like he understood me, where nobody else did or ever had. He thought … he acted as if he thought … that I was intelligent and able, like I had done a good job in the North, like the things I did there had mattered. And at the same time, he seemed to understand how I felt, why I had never annulled my marriage to Tyrion. How afraid I was, and how alone, all those years. How I never dared to love anyone, but all I wanted, all I ever wanted …” She stopped, and shook her head.

“I kissed him the night Arianne was in labour. We got drunk together, the Small Council. I could have excused myself. Nobody would have said a word. But I stayed. I was so proud of myself for my work on the council, so determined to show that I wasn’t weak. Then … when I left he came after me, and we talked. We made fun of you.” She found a smile crossing her lips at the memory. “How perfect the songs always make you sound. You know that I wrote some of those songs. Your hair is always amazing. People in the south have never seen your actual hair. I think they imagine that you never wear hats.”

Behind her, Jon sounded like he was choking on his wine. “At the Wall? If I didn’t wear hats, I wouldn’t have any ears left.”

“It is what people want to hear. I know something about that.” She twisted her fingers together. “Did you know that I kissed him, that night? Or he kissed me, I don’t even know. But I wanted him to kiss me. Nobody ever had, not really. Not in a way that made me want more. And I did. Want more. I wanted him.”

It was difficult to turn and look at Jon, to face him.

He looked so young, so vulnerable.

She saw it suddenly, the moment when the time was right to action, when the future swung like a weathervane and she could move it with a push of her finger. But this would be difficult. _I am a Stark of Winterfell,_ she told herself. _I must speak, now._

“You want to know what happened when they brought me back to Harrenhal?” She shook her head. “I was so afraid. Trying so hard not to show it. They took me to his quarters. He was waiting there. He had Blackfyre on his lap. I though … well, the obvious. Or worse. The things my imagination had conjured up …”

Jon was staring into space, his jaw clenched. He was stretching and flexing the fingers of his right hand, the movements ritual, almost as if he was unaware of the movement.

“And all he said was that we needed to talk. He laid the sword on the carpet between us, swore that he would not cross it, would not touch me again until we were wed.   He said … he said that he was sorry. Not for what he had done, but for the pain and the fear.”

The room wavered in front of her. _Why was that?_ But she couldn’t stop. If she stopped talking now, she felt like she would never start again.

“And I was so relieved, after all that fear. I was so glad that he wasn’t going to hurt me. Gods, he was still telling me I was a prisoner and he intended to force me into marriage – but I was grateful to him for not …” She swallowed. _Why can’t I breathe?_ “I sat with him, and we drank wine together, and he told me stupid jokes. And then I went to bed, alone, and I was so ashamed of myself. A week earlier, he threw me onto a cold stone floor, ripped my dress off, and raped me. I still had his finger marks on my wrist, and I let him make me laugh as if we were lovers.”

She touched her face, and realized that she was crying.

Jon stood. “Sansa – I want to …”

“I don’t care what you want!” Her voice echoed back off the stone ceiling of Visenya’s chamber. “This isn’t about you. If your feelings are going to matter here, then you can get yourself raped.”

He flinched like she had driven a knife into him.

She forced herself to stop. “I’m sorry,” she said more quietly. “But you don’t know … it wasn’t even the pain, or the fear. I was ashamed. I went there, to his quarters. Alone. They taught me better, Septa Mordane and my mother. They taught me to always be careful. But all those terrible things happened in the war, and I made it through. This was just a tournament, with all my friends and family in the castle. And I was so stupid … just a stupid girl.”

“No. That isn’t something that you should think. Not ever. Ermensande told me what happened. You can ask her yourself. You did nothing wrong.”

_I’ve done everything wrong. All my life. No matter what I’ve tried. Everything has been wrong. There has always been someone waiting to tell me I am wrong, judging me, mocking me. I walk a dangerous path. I knew that when I was a girl: one slip, and I am dead. There is no right, not for me. All I can do is chose between different kinds of wrong._

“There is something I need to ask you.” She paused, waited for him to compose himself. “It will shock you, I imagine."

Jon smiled. “I don’t have many terrible secrets.”

_Such a sweet smile, from such a hard man. Jon deserved better than the life he got. He deserves better than this. But I have no choice._

She steeled herself. “If Aegon dies, will you marry me?”

The question fell into a sudden silence between them. Jon’s face went blank with shock. “What?” he said.

“I am not suggesting a love affair. It need not even be consummated. I am capable of lying with a man – but given what we were to each other, I imagine you would have no more desire for such an event than I. But a marriage would combine our claims to the throne, particularly if I have a girl.”

“Sansa … I …. you are my sister. Maybe we are cousins by blood but in my heart you are my sister. I intend to support you and your child’s claim, you must know that.”

_It isn’t enough, Jon._

“Daenerys was your aunt.”

“It wasn’t the same. I didn’t even know we were kin when we met, when we first shared a bed.” Jon shook his head. “The truth is, no matter how much I loved her, there were moments when I looked at her and questioned what I was doing as her lover. Whether the Old Gods saw our love as wrong. For you and I, to go before a heart tree and swear oaths … Sansa you cannot ask that of me.”

 _So._ She took a breath.She found her fingers going to her bodice, where she had worn the mockingbird pin. She missed it, that old reassurance. _I can do this. For the sake of my child._

“You owe me this,” she said.

It would be easier if he had attempted to argue or evade. His face went pale as snow, his eyes closed briefly and he swallowed, but he made no word of protest. He remained silent, let her fill the silence with her words. _This would be easier if Jon wasn’t brave. If he wasn’t kind. If he wasn’t caring. It would be easier to hurt him like this, if I did not love him so._

“I know that the years of the war were hard for you in ways I can never understand. There are things that you have seen and suffered that are beyond anything I have ever known, or could even imagine. That you had no idea what Aegon was, or what you were sending me to. I know you never intended me to come to harm. But I did. And what happened to me.” She took a breath, “my rape and the child that will come of it, that would not have happened if you had not forced me to go to court.”

“I know.”

“Do you? Truly?” She paused to let the impact of that sink in. “You held the title of Regent of the North, but I was the one who ruled the North these last years. I rebuilt Winterfell and raised Rickon. He may not remember our parents, but he is growing to be a man they would be proud of. I negotiated the trade agreements and marriages that will keep the North safe and strong for generations. You and Arya had the luxury of coming and going as you wished, of setting aside your responsibilities if the weight became too great. I never did. And I never asked for anything in return. I never asked you to worry about me, or think about my future, or question why I hid myself away from the world. I cannot protect myself with feats of arms, and this world expects me to have the protection of a man. As regent and as the eldest male, you are the head of the Stark family, the one I was supposed to be able to turn to, but I never asked you to keep me safe.”

“Sansa, if you had ever asked …”

“How could I? I watched you fall apart, and I thought, he’s done enough for the world. For all of us. I was so grateful to you for everything you did in the war. I never wanted to be a burden. And I didn’t need to be. I managed just fine. I was at Winterfell, in the heart of our lands, with loyal bannermen. And Pod was there when I needed him. I was never raised to know how to protect myself, but I managed. I just never thought that you would force me to leave. But you did.”

Jon breathed heavily, steepled his fingers and rested his forehead against them.

“You told me to go to King’s Landing. You even threated to throw me out of my home. Winterfell, which I rebuilt stone by stone. And you could. You had the power to send me back to Tyrion, whether I wanted to go or not. Whether he wanted me or not. And what could I have done? If I had taken refuge with Sweetrobin or appealed to Rickon to challenge you, I would have revealed the divisions in our family to our bannermen and to all the other kingdoms.”

 “Sansa, I didn’t know … I’m sorry.”

“I know you are, Jon,” she said. _My heart is breaking, too._ “When you take control of another person’s life, you are responsible for the consequences.” She laid her hand on her belly. “You owe me this, Jon. Me and my child. Wed me. Keep us safe.”

He sat with bowed head. “I understand, Sansa. Can I have some time to think about it?”

“Of course,” she said gently. She could afford to be generous in victory. “We have time. And things have to happen before this issue even arises.  Your brother has to die.” 

Jon was staring at the floor. The suddenly his eyes flashed up, to study her face. Sansa was uncertain, like she had suddenly stepped onto clear ice without knowing it was there.

“Can I ask you something, Sansa?”

 _No_. “Of course.”

“How did Tyene Sand die?”


	33. Too Late

_Dear Sansa;_

_I received your letter that you are safe and at Winterfell. I am not ashamed to admit that I wept. All these years, and I have not heard from anyone in the family since the day I rode North. After I heard about the Red Wedding, you were the one sibling I had reason to believe was alive. I still had a sister.   That thought gave me hope in some dark times.   To have your own words means more than I can say._

_The Knights tell me you intend to remain at Winterfell. I do not want to frighten you, but I must be honest. Things here are very bad. It may be that we cannot hold. We don’t have the men, and absent a miracle, no one will reach us in time. I have a few remaining ravens ready to send if the worst happens, but I fear that if the end comes quickly the first warning you may receive will be a host of the dead at your doors. Please, I beg of you, take as many people as you can and flee south. As far south as you can. Do not sacrifice yourself to duty. I understand your desire to remain at the home we both love, but nothing matters more than your life. Keep yourself safe._

_Your brother, Jon._

***

Arya had run to him almost before his feet touched the ground, not showing the slightest fear of Viserion. Jon had swept her up in his arms. _Real. You’re real and safe and alive._ There had been a time of laughter and tears, exclaiming how much older they each looked, then the two of them embracing again.

Sansa and Rickon had stood back. Rickon was frozen, looking more at the dragon than at Jon. Shaggydog was pressed to his side. Sansa had her hand on his shoulder.

If Arya hadn’t been there, perhaps embracing Sansa would have felt less awkward, all elbows and shyness and her kiss cool on his cheek. It was strange for her to be as tall as he was, strange to see how self-controlled she was, how every gesture and word seemed measured. He almost wouldn’t have known her as the Sansa of his childhood until she smiled, and suddenly all the gentle sweetness he remembered was there.

She reached out to Rickon. “Rickon, this is Jon. Your—“ Then she had hesitated. “Do you remember Jon?”

The boy had shaken his head, taken a step back. Then he was running away, in the direction of the castle gates.

Jon had been warned, and he had not expected Rickon to remember him. But it still hurt.

Sansa touched his arm. “Don’t worry, Jon. There’s time. It is spring, and the wars are over. We have all the time we need.”

And in that moment, with his sisters beside him as he walked into the castle, Jon felt like they did have all the time in the world to make things right.

***

The crypts of Winterfell might have felt cold once, but compared to the Wall the chill was scarcely noticeable. Jon separated the candles from the bundle he had carried down with him. One at the statute of Eddard Stark, left half-finished when the stone-carver had died at Ramsey Bolton’s hands. It would be a good likeness when finished, Jon thought. At present only the face emerged clearly from the stone – the somber mouth and serious eyes that had held so many secrets in life. One at Lyanna’s tomb. Her face was remote, forever frozen in her youth and beauty. The last went into the empty alcove that was to contain Robb’s figure.

He didn’t know how long he had been there, standing before the tombs of the dead, Ghost silent at his side, when he heard footsteps. The light of Sansa’s candle combined with the ones he had already lit to create moving shadows in every corner of the crypts. Suddenly the space that had seemed calming was full of threats.

“Arya says you are going back to Castle Black. I thought you would stay longer this time.”

“So did I.”

He had woken in a sweat in the night, clawing at the sheets, and spent the hours till dawn pacing his chamber floor. The sound of the dead climbing the Wall had echoed through his dream. The fear had felt like it was coming in waves. He couldn’t breathe. He thought of the first wight he had ever fought, how it had jammed its fingers down his throat to choke him. When light had crept in his window he had fled to the Godswood to pray. _Not again, please._ But he didn’t know if he should ask to be spared from another attack or from the fears of his mind.

He had tried to push through. He had duties that day. Several of the Lords from the western shore had wanted an audience. They were afraid of the Ironborn. They were angry. A young man, barely out of his teens, had tried to push Jon. Jon had put him on the floor. Then he had turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

“Jon, I don’t understand.” Sansa’s voice was soft, puzzled. “What happened up there?”

She stepped towards him, carrying the candle with her, and the shadows moved. Ghost whined. Jon felt his breath starting to quicken. He wanted to grab her and pull her close, draw steel.

_On shadows._

“How do I explain it when I don’t even understand it myself?” He wished for Arya, but she was away on one of her journeys to the south. Arya somehow always managed to smooth these incidents away.

“Jon, it has been five years since the war. Two years since spring came.” There was anger there, beneath the veneer of ladylike gentility. “We are in the crypts of Winterell and you are looking around as if someone is going to attack you. There is no one but you and I. Look around.” She moved the candle in an arc, and the shadows slid along the walls like living things. “There’s nothing here.”

Ghost pressed into Jon’s side, and he forced his breathing to slow. _Just the crypts. She’s right, just the crypts_.

_I must get back to Castle Black._

“Jon,” Sansa said, and her anger was open now. “I need you here. Don’t you dare leave me alone.”

He turned away from her. _I’m in the crypts. In Winterfell_. He said it to himself over and over. _I’m in Winterfell.   I’m in Winterfell._

“Jon! _Jon!_ ”

***

The Umbers had gone to great lengths for this feast. Braised venison with mushrooms and onions, cutlets of lamb breaded and herbed and served sizzling, duck eggs on slices of rich red blood sausage with black bread on the side. Jon thought he had no appetite, but as plate after plate was put in front of him, he found himself consuming more than he had expected. At least he wouldn’t insult their hosts.

Sansa had been seated opposite Jon. She was dressed like the princess she was in all but title, in cornflour blue silk embroidered in gold, her dress trimmed in pure white fur. Jon felt rough and shabby beside her. She was gracious, but quiet. They had barely spoken in moons. She was angry with him, he knew.

“Your Grace, sorry for your loss,” the Greatjon boomed. Even imprisonment at the Twins had not quelled the man, although it had aged him. His hair and beard had gone pure white and he walked with a cane.  

Jon had to take a moment to realize that the words were addressed to him.

“I never met my nephew,” he said. “But his death is sad.” Aegon, the boy had been, for his father. He had been no more than three years old.

“Yes,” said the Greatjon, but Jon noted a glint in the man’s eye.

No few northern lords had indicated that they liked the idea of a northern man on the Iron Throne. And now Jon was titular heir again. It made him sick _. I have no desire for my brother’s throne._

Sansa had been playing with her food, but now she looked up. “Has the King written to you?”

Jon shifted. “Yes,” he admitted. _How does she know?_ He had received a letter from Aegon that morning. It was shorter than usual, the contents more somber, but the missive was still wordy and full of details of court life. Aegon wrote three letters for every one Jon answered, but it never seemed to deter him. “He seems well enough. Upset, of course.”

Aegon had asked Jon to come to court. He hadn’t even wanted to come as far south as Last Hearth. _Something could happen while I am here. I need to be at the Wall._ He had replied with a firm refusal.

Sansa looked down at her plate, and pushed her meat about with the tip of her knife. “Poor babe,” she said. “And the King and Queen, too.”

“Hopefully the Queen will give my brother another son soon,” he said. _And all this will be past us._

But Sansa’s face looked so sad and her brow was creased with worry _. She’s thinking of more than just the dead prince_. Jon could feel the distance between them, growing greater all the time, like a great expanse of ice.  

***

“Will you marry me?”

Sansa had asked the question, and Jon had a moment of complete lack of comprehension. _You’re my sister,_ was all he could think. _How can I marry my sister?_ .

He stuttered out an objection.

She laid it out for him, all the reasons he owed her. Her face was gentle and her voice carried that kindness she had never lost. He had known these things, had reproached himself dozens of times in the dark of the night, but that was nothing compared to hearing it stated.

_I have failed as a brother. All these years since the war, I have failed._

_She’s so thin. Too thin._ Two young maesters had come to Dragonstone to attend her, and Septa Giana of the Faith was an accomplished midwife. They had been all reassurances when Jon had questioned them about Sansa’s health. But they had not known not to speak freely when Ghost was in the room. Jon knew that they were worried.

The risks of any birth were compounded when it was the first time. There were all those months of not eating, of fear and strain. Barely sleeping. Still struggling to keep food down, even months into the pregnancy. A fever that had struck her within days of their arrival at Dragonstone.

“A woman’s battle is in the birthing bed”, the old saying went. Jon had seen it. Dalla had seemed strong and healthy, but he had watched her die in Mance Raydar’s tent while Stannis’ troops battled the wildlings outside. The child had come free with a rush of blood that soaked the furs she lay on and left Val’s hands crimson to the elbow. Jon had his sword drawn to defend the women, but he had been helpless in that moment. Useless. Dead, Dalla had seemed a small thing, crumpled among her bloody furs, her babe wailing in Val’s arms.

Sansa looked small now, fragile and hollow-eyed as she stared out the window. She had dressed in red and black, and the Targaryen colours drained her. She looked almost bloodless, her skin more like marble than flesh. The heavy fabric outlined the curve of her belly.

He thought back to that day at the Wall, that day he had made the worst of his mistakes, that day that shaped everything that came after. _I cannot go back. I cannot ever take back what was said and done, and the consequences._

He had a brief surreal vision of Catelyn Tully Stark’s face if she could hear this conversation, then, worse, of Ned Stark’s. He pushed the thoughts aside.

 _I was willing to wed Alys, a stranger, in return for the Tyrell support. Surely I can do as much for Sansa herself._ He had no lover to abandon. Although he’d had his fancies – he thought of Elia, and wondered where she was now – he had no true ties of the heart. He had never even thought of marriage until these last months, when he had needed political support from the Tyrells. He was giving up only possibilities – but those … _To love and be loved, to have children of my own, to know a marriage that is more than a sham and a lie. To not be alone. It would be a loss, to give up that hope. But not too much for her to ask of me. Not with what is at stake._

_She’s right in all that she has said. I do owe her – I have done harm that can never be mended. I am honour bound to protect her, and her child. And even if honour did not demand it … love would. For my sister, and for those children who are my kin twice over. I should be willing to wed her – if it comes to that. To give her whatever protection my name and reputation can offer._

_I have to do this._

_But … what is the price?_ When she had spoke of consummation, he had felt sick to his stomach. _How could she imagine that I could ever want that? She looks at me and she sees Aegon. How are we to live together when I cannot even smile at her? How am I to give her any kind of happiness?_ _I could not bear to give her a moment’s more pain or fear_

He thought of the look in Sansa’s eyes when he had put his hand on her wrist after Obara attacked him.   That moment when he had seen her fear, and he had known the truth.

It was strange, how his thoughts slid sideways. Obara… she had thought he killed Tyene. He had thought Aegon had done it. And then he looked at Sansa, pale and huddled in her chair, wearing her fear like a robe. And suddenly Jon was afraid.

“How did Tyene Sand die?”

Sansa’s eyes widened. She hesitated. And he had his answer.

“Tyene was a threat to me.” He saw her fingers tighten against her belly, her skin white against the deep crimson and black of her dress.

Then she swallowed, and bit her lip, and she was his sister again, the little girl who had run behind him and Robb in those beautiful lost days of the long summer.

Jon felt like it was impossible to breathe. He hadn’t wanted it to be true. _Aegon. I wanted it to be Aegon. It would have been so much simpler._ “Sansa, what happened? Why? How?”

“Don’t look at me like I am a killer!” she burst out. “I didn’t mean to kill Tyene! I just … I was afraid.” She put her hand on her belly. “I was afraid. She was Arianne’s cousin, her closest, dearest friend. A famous poisoner. And if I died, Arianne could remain Queen.” She shook her head. “That dinner – it was all I could do not to be sick on the table, in front of all of them. I tried to hide it, but … she knew. She must have. She wasn’t a fool. And she pushed that plate at me …”

“You didn’t know it was poisoned.”

“I didn’t know it wasn’t. If she planned my death – what could I do? Have every plate tested? Something would have slipped through. I had to know. That’s all I intended, I swear. I never meant to kill her.” Her voice trailed off. “I regretted her death,” she said finally. “I never … I never wanted to hurt anyone.”

“I know that, Sansa. But … I don’t understand.” _I hope I do not understand. Please, by all the gods …_ “You were with Tyrion while he was taken ill. At Obara’s hearing, there were witnesses – you never left his side.”

“I wanted to look through her eyes. Arya can do it with cats, she told me. I thought I could just slip into her mind, see what she had hidden in her sleeves, what was in her chest of poisons …”

Jon found himself on his feet. “You tried to warg into a person. Sansa, that’s … ”

Her chin lifted, and she looked very much like her mother. “Don’t judge me. How dare you judge me? I had to know. I have to protect myself, and nobody else is going to do it.”

“But … how? You had been warging into animals for just a few weeks – a person … that’s … that’s not possible. And what in do you mean that you don’t know how she died?”

“I wanted her dead.” Sansa said, simply. “I looked through her eyes, I saw poisons all over her room, and I wished that she was dead. And she died.”

He had not thought of Dalla as she had been in life for many years, but her words echoed in his mind now. _“The Horned Lord once said that sorcery is a sword without a hilt. There is no safe way to grasp it.”_

There were many forms of power in their world. The Old Gods saw through the faces on the trees, and even south of the Neck there were places holy to them. The Isle in the lake called the Gods Eye, where the trees still grow, was the greatest of them.Bran had told him. Jon swallowed, remembering something else his brother had told him. “ _On the shores of that lake is another, the castle of Harrenhal. It is a place of darkness, and my sight is clouded there. But last night I saw blood on the stones of Harrenhal.”_

What had Varys said? _The court went to Harrenhal, a place of curses, and it has not returned unchanged._

_She was the Stark of Winterfell._

So many Starks of Winterfell had died in the South over just a few decades. Jon wondered to himself. _Of them, how many had been the Stark, the guardian of Winterfell, of the crypts that lay below it? Rickard, burned alive, his heir Brandon strangled, Eddard beheaded on the Steps of the Great Sept, Robb betrayed and murdered at the Red Wedding. And now Sansa._

_I need to take her to Bran. But that’s impossible._

He spoke quickly, urgently. “Sansa, this power – it isn’t natural. It is dangerous. If it is tied to blood magic, to the curse of Harrenhal – it isn’t right.”

Sansa looked at her hands. She seemed to be weighing his words. Then her eyes met his – so blue, he thought with a shiver. “I don’t care.”

“What? Sansa…” His mouth went dry and he stepped back. “Don’t you understand? There could be evil in it.”

“I don’t care if it is evil, if I can use it to protect myself and my children,” she said flatly. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. I never did.” She paused, looked down at her belly, cupped it, and then looked up at him again. “I will do anything necessary to keep us safe.”

For all that the chamber was spacious, it felt like the walls of the room were pressing in on Jon. He looked around. Visenya’s rooms. They were still called that, although Targaryen ladies had used them long before her birth, and some had lived in them after. On one wall, a painting in the old Valyrian style showed Visenya, dark sister drawn, a young Maegor at her side. _She died here_ , he thought. _Long after both her siblings were gone, and she had threatened and imprisoned her kin to set her son on the throne_. _Did she think it was worth it, in the end?_ Jon looked at the picture of Maegor, just a small boy clutching his mother’s hand, his violet eyes like amethysts.

“You should know … Last night, I dreamed … maybe it was nothing, but it felt real. The wildlings say that a gift of true dreaming runs with the warging power. I saw two of them, and they said they were brother and sister. You could have twins.”

Sansa’s lips parted, and she looked as though she was about to weep. “A man with violet eyes? And a fair haired girl?”

When Jon nodded, tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them back. “I spoke to him. Her I saw only for a moment, but he came to me. I didn’t dare think it was real. He was so gentle, and kind. Nothing like … nothing like his father.” She bowed her head, and stroked the curve of her swollen belly. “What was she like?”

Jon thought of the woman he had seen. “Strong.”

Sansa nodded. She took a shuddering breath. “Good,” she said.

Her words about Aegon rang in his ears. _I felt … as if I mattered to him. Like he understood me, where nobody else did or ever had. He thought … he acted as if he thought … that I was intelligent and able, like I had done a good job in the North, like the things I did there had mattered._

 _Aegon did all the things I never did. No wonder he had such power over her._ It wasn’t just him, Jon knew. The seeds of this went a long way back. _But these last years, I have been the eldest. The head of House Stark. It was my responsibility to care for my siblings. I took the power, but never performed the duties – to love and care for them. For her._

 _“_ Did I tell you I stopped at Winterfell on the way south?” Jon asked. “I hadn’t seen the glass gardens finished. They are beautiful. All those rainbows of light – far more beautiful than in the Long Summer. You did that. And the library tower, that was finished too. The great hall roof is as strong as it ever was, and more. It will stand for a hundred more winter storms.”

She stirred. “It doesn’t even feel real anymore. Sometimes I dream that Winterfell is still that deserted ruin I came back to.”

“It isn’t. Ask Rickon. He’s … he’s a good boy, becoming a good man. You did that. Your parents would be proud.” Jon took a breath. “Sansa, what you want of me, this marriage. I would do it. If it comes to that, I will do it _.”_

Sansa looked back at him then, and there was a hint of a smile on her lips, the relief plain in her eyes. “Thank you, Jon.”

“But, Sansa … is this truly what you want?”

Her eyes snapped wide, and there was a sudden look of betrayal. “I have told you what I want. What I need.”

“That wasn’t what I meant. I will do everything I can to keep you safe. If that means marriage, then so be it.”

 _We are talking as if Aegon is already dead_ , Jon thought. Even knowing what Aegon was, it was a bitter thought. _Could he have been different, if I had gone south earlier? If I had not tempted him by sending Sansa to him? His acts are his own, but what possibilities were lost due to my blindness?_

He forced himself to continue. “But … you want to love, and to be loved. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? What you are doing -- Aegon, the throne, the Red Keep … all the things that you will have to sacrifice to walk this path—you deserve better.”

Her jaw clenched. “Then that is my choice. I thought you would understand. You of all people. I need my son to be safe. For nobody to be able to hurt him, not ever.”

Jon groped for words. “I do understand. That could have been me.” He had thought about that many times, all the possibilities of his life. And that one filled him with fear. “After Robert’s Rebellion, when Ned Stark was standing with me an infant in his arms – do you think it occurred to him to put Rhaegar’s son on the throne? He would have had to fight Robert to do it, but he had the men. The Tullys and Arryns were tied to him through marriage, not to Robert. He could have pulled it off. Bastards have inherited before.   And I would have been King of the Seven Kingdoms in my cradle. Do you think I would have known peace?”

“You would have been spared the Wall,” she said.

 That thought had occurred to him too. He looked around the chambers. Visenya’s rooms. Rich fabrics, carved and gilded furniture, a priceless silver mirror taller than Jon. And dragons, dragons everywhere. They coiled around the legs of chairs, and nestled in tapestries on the walls. The Myrish carpet – threadbare from three hundred years of feet – had hundreds of them. Even the warrior Queen’s weapons, displayed on the wall, were embossed with dragons picked out in precious metals. _This is my heritage,_ he thought, _or it would have been_. But he felt hollow at the idea.

“I chose to take the oath. The Wall was where I needed to be, for all our sakes.” He said it, and found that the thought did not contain the bitterness it once had.  
“Would I have been better off living in luxury in the south, until the day the army of the dead came to my door? And my life at Winterfell – it wasn’t so bad. I wish I could have known the truth, but … I had brothers. Sisters. I was able to grow up loved and secure.”

She stared at him for a moment, her lips slightly parted, eyes wide. Then he saw her face grow hard again. “My son will be secure.”

He thought of himself, that babe in Ned’s arms so long ago, and then looked at Sansa’s belly. “Sansa, people will try to use your children. Or fear them. They will grow up never knowing who to trust. Being flattered.” _How much of that life made Aegon what he is,_ Jon wondered _. And he was a grown man when he took the throne._ “What will you have to do to protect your children?”

Her face went hard and cold, and Jon felt shiver go down his back _. I’ve said the wrong thing._ “You want to prevent me from… that’s why you are willing to agree to a marriage. You want to control me.”

“What?! No!” He felt the panic starting to rise _._ “Sansa, I never intended that. I would never. If we were to marry, it wouldn’t be to control you. I want to keep you safe, that’s all.”

“You’ve controlled me before, Jon,” she said, and her voice was steel.

_She’s looking at me like I am a threat._

_I am in danger._ He felt his body tense, and he was suddenly aware of every weapon in the room, of the door to his back, the instincts of a lifetime of fighting to survive coming into play.

 _No. This is my sister._ But his mouth was dry.

“And you want to keep other people safe from me.” Her voice was soft. _She named herself the Ice-Maiden. She looks it now._ “Tell me what to do, what to say, where to go. What I cannot do.”

“Sansa … I love you. That’s why I came. I know I haven’t shown it these last years, I know I’ve made mistakes, terrible ones, but … I’m your brother. I don’t want to control you.” He groped for words, but all he could find was, “I love you.”

There was no change in her expression.

 _She doesn’t trust me._ Jon bowed his head, feeling his mistakes of all the years since the war coming to roost. Every chance he had let pass, everything he had never told her. _Too late._ It was like a drumbeat in his ears. _Too late. Too late._

He reached for one last possibility. “I know I have no right to ask anything of you. But just one thing. Please.”

***

Rickon and Lyanna were sitting together, her head on his shoulder, hands clasped. Ermensande was attempting to pet a disinterested Shaggydog, while Robert Arryn stared out the window, his shoulders hunched. All of them looked up as the door opened.

Jon felt Sansa stiffen. But then she raised her chin and stepped into the room.

Ermensande was across the room in a flash. Jon had to put a hand on Ghost’s neck to restrain him. They remained in the doorframe. _She agreed to come. Nothing more._

The girl stopped short, looked at Sansa, and began to cry. Sansa reached out tentatively and touched her face. “It’s all right,” she said. And pulled Ermensande into her arms. Jon felt himself almost sag in relief. _She will let someone love her._ Then Sweetrobin was there, hugging them both. Rickon was right behind him. Shaggydog ran around in circles. Lyanna hovered a few steps away, smiling, relief clear on her face.

Over Ermensande’s shoulder, Sansa met Jon’s eyes. Then she turned her head and looked away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments are very welcome. I find I've been struggling a bit with this story, which is obviously dark, since the bleak events of season five on the show. 
> 
> Thanks to Wendynerd to beta-reading this chapter. Due to other commitments Wendy will not be able to continue beta-reading Ties. Her past work is very much appreciated.


	34. Fire

Aegon sat on the parapet over Rheagal’s dragonpit, the evening air cool on his cheeks, the stone under his buttocks still warm from the day’s heat. He let his feet dangle over the hundred-foot drop. Rhaegal was perched on a rock where he could look down into the water for fish. There was barely a ripple in the deep blue of the ocean. In the sky, the crescent moon was visible. 

It felt good to be outside. Aegon shifted, feeling the ache of mending flesh near his groin. _I was stabbed in the crotch by my wife. With a fruit knife. Happens every day._ He had been abed for weeks, with the Grandmaester hovering over him like a nervous mother. Aegon had finally thrown the man out and called for his boots and clothing. He had been in the air on Rhaegal’s back an hour later. It had been a risk, he knew and he would pay for it tonight and tomorrow. It had been worth it.

Rhaegal huffed with annoyance at finding nothing in the water. Aegon chuckled. One day they had been camping on one of the islets in the bay and Rhaegal had managed to catch a shark; he had never forgotten, nor given up hope of a repeat. 

Someone cleared their throat behind him. Aegon didn’t bother to turn. There would be few enough people the guards would allow here while the king was alone. 

“Aegon,” Varys said. “I am sorry to disturb your peace, but I’ve come into possession of something you will want to know.”

The king sighed. Obediently, he swung his legs back over the stone railing and jumped down to face his Master of Whispers.

“I don’t like you sitting like that. The stones are smooth. One slip and you could go over,” Varys groused. He was holding a sheaf of papers. 

“Are you certain this couldn’t wait until the morrow?”

“This is the record of a conversation that Lady Stark and Prince Jon had yesterday. I believe you will find it most … illuminating.” 

Aegon took the document, simultaneously curious and impressed. He had sent his own people to Dragonstone, of course. Some of them Sansa knew about, some she didn’t. He was well aware of the arrival of Lord Rickon and Lord Arryn, and their foolhardy plan to declare independence. (He had been relieved that his brother had quashed that notion. Embarking on fatherhood yet again was likely to be hard enough without starting off by having to explain to his child how he had slaughtered their kin.) Neither Jon nor Sansa were fool enough to let his people overhear sensitive conversations. This must have taken some doing. But then, Varys had been Master of Whispers longer than Aegon had been alive.

He read the notes quickly, holding them in the golden light of the setting sun. Then he did it again, more slowly. Then a third time. When he was finished, he stared into space for a moment. “They plan to marry. He agreed to it.” His hand holding the papers tightened. “He _agreed_ to it.”

 _He would have my crown, call my children his own. He would name her his queen. Make her his own. She would be his._ Maybe Aegon wouldn’t feel that like the greatest of insults of all … if Jon had schemed for it. If he had wanted it. _He is offered everything that is mine, and he has to be forced to take it._

 _What a fool I have been,_ he thought. With the soreness in his gut it was as if even his body was silently reproving him. _I allowed myself to get distracted. I thought of Sansa, of the child; of a future for the Targaryen line. My brother was here, and I was glad. It was fun. I forgot that I hated him._

_I remember it now._

He could see it all as if it was unfolding before his eyes. Their marriage would be one of convenience only in the beginning. But they would live together, month after month, year after year. Raise the children together, share meals. Neither of them would seek comfort outside their vows; there was too much Stark honour in both of them for that. But they would be lonely, both of them. And in time, they would turn to each other. 

Perhaps it would happen some evening as they sat together, discussing the business of the realm. She would have sewing in her lap. Her fingers were long and slender, soft but for the callouses from needle and thimble. Jon would be watching those hands moving deftly over the embroidery. Her head would be bowed, the candlelight shining on her red hair. 

She’d look up to find him watching her. Jon was not a traditionally handsome man, but his body was lean and well-muscled, his grey eyes intense. Aegon imagined Sansa meeting his gaze, then blushing. She’d stammer out some kind of apology. He’d assure her that there was nothing to be sorry for; he would be shy and a bit awkward himself. And then she would be in his arms, his lips on hers. They would fumble with the laces of each other’s clothing, laughing, passionate, bare skin meeting, sweat mingling …

“This marriage does not happen.” 

“Indeed.” Varys frowned. “And, incidentally, they are plotting your death, if that is of interest to you. If you don’t care, please let me know. I live to serve, and I do hope all the time I spend preventing plots against your life isn’t a waste.”

Aegon waved his hand. “I am rather looking forward to Jon’s inevitable attempt to kill me. There are so many possibilities.” His flip tone sounded false even to himself. I used to be better at this. He wanted that fight so badly that it hurt. He could taste the anger like bile in his mouth. “Is he going to challenge me to honourable combat, or pounce on me from behind in the dark? Is it going to be with steel, or on dragonback? Would Eddard Stark hang his head in shame, or will his ‘son’ give me a chance to win?” 

Varys glared at Aegon, his lips tight with anger. “Such a contest would be ruinous for the realm. Either of you could die. Or both. And what then of the dragons?”

“We cannot avoid it.” _I want to fight him. No,_ Aegon thought. Not just to fight. I want to defeat him. I want to fight him and win. And what after that? It seemed inconceivable to him, a life he didn’t know how to live anymore. _I used to hope for a future. There was a time I knew how to do that._

“Perhaps there is another way to resolve the situation. The marriage that so offends you could be prevented by death, but it needn’t be your brother’s.”

It took a moment for Aegon to catch up with the Spider’s meaning. His breath caught. “Sansa is carrying my child.”

“But when she gives you an heir, she becomes dispensable. Particularly if they are right that she carries twins. You will have the alliances you need to preserve your kingdom … and … well, ladies die in the birthing bed with sad regularity. Done right, even Jon would not suspect it was anything other than the course of nature. You wish revenge on your brother,” Varys’ mouth was twisted with distaste, but he continued. “Life, with guilt and grief, would be far worse than any injury you could cause him. And your brother might become a kinslayer to free her, but for revenge? It is not his nature. Likely your children would have no better protector.”

Aegon stepped back, stunned. _Sansa,_ was all he thought, his brain was suddenly scattered into a million pieces like a dropped vase. 

“The arrangements are already in place. All I have to do is give the word.”

“You’ve been planning this for some time,” Aegon said slowly.

“From the moment I learned of the consequences of your foolishness. I like the woman, and under other circumstances I would mean her no ill.” There was resolution Varys’ eyes. “But I did not work all these years to leave the throne to the mockingbird.”

 _Sansa._ Aegon thought of the day he had met her, in the throne room. She had been wearing that white dress. So clever, so brave, so frightened. He remembered the moment she had been more than just a target to him. When he had come down from the throne to greet her, and he had seen that flash of indignation in her eyes. He closed his eyes. Sansa, with her mind always working, her careful courtesies. Those huge blue eyes that had been filled with sadness long before he had ever crossed her path. 

“I owe my throne to you,” Aegon said. “And more than that, my life. I know that.” Sometimes he dreamed of the Pisswater prince laying dead on the floor of a queen’s chambers, his brains spread out across the wall. And then he would think of Varys, who had carried him from the Red Keep in his arms all those years ago, told lie after lie, using even the truth as a weapon. “I have never asked why you did it.” He stepped towards the dragonpit, looked down into it. “You could not have foreseen that dragon eggs would hatch. Daenerys had not even been born, and generations of Targaryens had tried and failed.” He turned to look back at Varys. “It cannot have been just the hope of crafting the perfect prince. My father and grandfather were not such paragons that you could have had any faith in the bloodlines. Robert Baratheon’s sons would have done as well, if he’d had a trueborn heir.” 

“True,” Varys said. His eyes were distant. “But in those last months at the Red Keep … your grandfather tasked me to watch your mother. He didn’t trust her. And in that time – I spent a lot of time near you. I … became fond of you. I never expected to care for a child. So when your mother asked if I could get you away to safety, I agreed.” He shrugged. “I suppose you can cut away the bits that allow a man to become a father, but some little part remains that wishes … well … foolishness, anyhow.”

“I am grateful to you,” Aegon said. He stepped close, put his hands on Varys’ shoulders. “For everything you have done. And I want you to know that I will always remember that.” 

It was quick. Simple. Just a sharp push, and Varys went over the edge of the parapet. There was a brief cry. High pitched, like a girl. Then a thud. A body hitting stone. 

Rhaegal shrieked, and Aegon whistled for the dragon to come. _I will not have his body defiled._ The green beast took wing, and hovered in the air as Aegon went to the edge to look. The sun was setting behind the keep, and the bottom of the wall was in shadow. He could barely make out the base, and what lay by it. 

He rocked back. _I never killed anyone before. Not with my own hands._ He looked at his palms. They were no different. _I didn’t want to do it now. Varys, why did you put me to this? Why did you have to threaten her?_

_She’s safe now. And she will care for the children; she will fight like the Others for them. The future of House Targaryen lies with her, and with them._ It was a good feeling to know that. Aegon could let go of the burdens he had carried for so long. 

Rhaegal was looking east, where Dragonstone Island was a dark outline on the horizon. Jon and Visarion are there. Aegon put his hand on the dragon’s shoulder. The scales were hot under his fingers. He felt very close to the beast, like they were one flesh, one mind. 

A rumble like a cat’s purr started in Rhaegal’s belly. Aegon could feel the flesh vibrating under his fingers. The dragon stretched out his neck, his eyes focused on that distant shape. He extended his claws. They scraped on the stone. Slowly, Rhaegal pulled back his lips to expose teeth longer than Aegon’s forearm. The rumble grew louder. 

The dragon opened his mouth and let out a roar that echoed off the stone of the Keep. A breath. His mouth opened wider, the rumble back but now it was like thunder. Aegon was breathless, his whole body tense with expectation for what he knew was next. 

The flame, when it came, danced in the air like a living thing. Rhaegal screamed. His lungs worked like a billows. Aegon could feel his hair blowing back with the wind of it. The heat near burned his skin. He didn’t care. He closed his eyes, leaned his head back, spread his arms. It was like he was breathing fire himself. It was wonderful, glorious. 

Rhaegal ran out of breath. He coughed, spat, and growled. For a moment Aegon thought he might take wing. He put his hand on the dragon’s flank. 

“No,” he said. The dragon’s head rotated to face Aegon. Huge eyes stared into his. Aegon looked back, unafraid. “Not yet.” 


	35. On Dragonstone

_To my loving wife;_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I am sure that you are likewise concerned about me. As you may be aware, I was recently stabbed. I am healing well from the stabbing. And I am drinking a lot of wine with herbs, which is relaxing, so I suppose there are benefits to having been stabbed._

_I have dismissed the maesters who were to attend you. Concerns about their loyalties have come to my attention. The Dragonstone guards will attend to their disposal. Septa Gianna can remain, and she will find other attendants through the Faith: fortunately, since he agreed to our marriage, the High Septon has nearly as much at stake here as we do. Be cautious in your trust otherwise._

_Things have been difficult. I know that. People have been stabbed. But I can give you protection and security, not just for yourself, but for the children, too._

_Jon arrived back at court a few days ago, and will travel down to Summerhall with us. He keeps watching me as if I am going to leap onto dragonback and fly out to Dragonstone to visit you. Paranoid bastard. In fact, when you think about it, that is literally what he is. I really do not understand why he is always so morose. I don’t go around like that, and I was stabbed not long ago._

_Let me think: what news of the court will you have missed? Aside from the stabbing, of course._

_Martyn Lannister is the talk of King’s Landing after defeating two Kingsguard in single combat. They were fools, of course, but the minstrels don’t know that and they are already drafting songs. Since he is now exonerated, I have had no choice but to confirm him in his Lordship and host him at court. What an insufferable ass. Every time he talks I pretend that my wound – the wound from being stabbed -- is paining me and I have to lie down. Eventually he is going to do something that offends the kind of person who holds grudges._

_After Varys’ death, I am without a master of whispers. I would like to ask my cousin Sarella, but given recent bad relations with that side of the family, I’ll wait a while before making that decision. I’m sitting around recovering from the stabbing, so I’ve been reading his files myself. They are fascinating. Did you know that I met your sister Arya at the Inn of the Crossings? She was calling herself Nan at the time. I had no idea. Varys really should have told me. And better: she’s been knocking boots with a blacksmith! Not that I blame her – I’ve seen the man, and he doesn’t talk much, but makes up for it in other ways. Very Nice._

_Out of curiosity, why is there what appears to be a small weirwood tree in the Godswood? And what is wrong with it? Every weirwood I’ve ever seen has been white, but the trunk of this one is black. Jon refuses to answer my questions about it (I’m starting to suspect he doesn’t like me), but he looked very worried when he left the Godswood. Perhaps it needs to be watered more?_

_Arianne has vacated the Queen’s chambers. I hope you will like the new decorations. As you are likely to spend a great deal of time there. Davos and Garlan, by which I mean Jon, suggested that you establish a household on Dragonstone after the wedding in the Sept, but that is impossible. I want you with me. I like living dangerously._

_Being stabbed is remarkably painful, if you were unaware._

_Your Beloved Aegon_

***

Sansa:

As her waistline slowly vanished week by week, the miserable symptoms of her early pregnancy had subsided. Sansa was enjoying life on Dragonstone far more than she had expected. Waking up in the mornings and not wanting to clutch a basin and spew out one’s guts was a glorious feeling. Being nice to people who would plot one’s death in a heartbeat was not.

Margaery Tyrell’s smile didn’t falter as she took the jewel case from one of her attendant cousins. “I was so amazed when Garlan told me,” she said. “I mean … it is a lovely thing, but so unusual. I had no idea what it was.”

 _I miss Tyrion_ , thought Sansa. _We could barely make cordial conversation over dinner, but by the Gods he was wonderful when people he hated were around. Like the Tyrells. What would he say here … “The woman must be blind, stupid, or lying. And her eyesight seems excellent.”_

As Margaery had said, the Star of the North was an odd gem. It was huge, bigger than Sansa’s thumb nail, and had been set in a heavy silver chain to bear the weight. Sansa remembered her mother wearing it only on the most formal of occasions. In colour it was barely recognizable as a sapphire at all; it was a smoky blue, and would ordinarily be little more than a curio. But the extraordinary thing about it was the six-pointed star that appeared in its depth when it reflected light.

Margaery dropped her gaze, a pretty flush staining her cheeks. “I’m just glad to be in a position to return it to its rightful owner,” she said. “I’m so sorry that none of the other items came to me. They must have been sold by Cersei Lannister.”

“You were never given any diamonds?” Sansa asked.

“Not one.” Margaery’s chin lifted defiantly. “I brought many jewels with me to King’s Landing, so there was no need. The Reach is the wealthiest of the Kingdoms. What would I want with stolen jewels from Cersei Lannister?” Her mouth twisted as she said that name.

_We all hated Cersei. That doesn’t mean Margaery hated the diamonds._

Sansa put the jewel back into the case and fastened it securely. It had been intended as payment for one ill-fated betrothal. Now it was going with her into another royal union. She couldn’t imagine ever wanting to wear it. _No. This is for my daughter, to be her security. Her birthright._

She thought of the girl she had glimpsed so briefly in the weirwood, of the strength in her features. _What is to be her fate?_ Her son’s future she could see clearly. The throne, a dragon, fathering heirs, ruling. _What is to become of my daughter?_

“I am glad we had the chance to have this talk.” Margaery said.

Sansa nodded. _We do need to talk, you and I._ “I did take the liberty of arranging refreshments. The cooks here have managed to make acceptable lemoncakes. I’ve never asked – do you like them?”

“I love lemoncakes,” Margaery said firmly.

_She’d probably say that if she vomited at the sight of them. How things have changed._

Margaery’s eyes were bright with envy. “Have you been fitted for your crown yet?” She asked, with a small laugh. “I found that such a long, tedious process. Not as bad as wearing it, though. The weight of mine was terrible. I was always so glad to take it off at the end of the night.”

_Yes Margaery, we are all reminded that you were a queen._

The jewellers had in fact fitted Sansa before she had left King’s Landing, although she had yet to see the finished product. Her crown was to be a delicate thing, styled after Aegon’s but made of silver rather than gold, and far lighter. There were to be dragons twisting around her temples. Aegon had wanted rubies, she had been told, but he had agreed that they would not shine properly next to her hair. So the gems were to be black diamonds. It would be waiting for her at the Sept of Baelor.

“I’m sorry, if you don’t want to talk about the preparations, I quite understand,” Margaery said. “I found the lead up to my wedding with Joffrey quite exhausting.” Margaery reached out and took Sansa’s hand. “Please let me know if there is anything I can do to help.”

“There is not, but thank you for asking.”

“Just the clothes fitting alone! But then you always have dressed so beautifully.”  

 _My life has gone to hell and back,_ Sansa thought, as she looked down at her sleeve: a vision in fabric and decoration. _Perhaps I am Queen of Westeros, perhaps I am the Aegon’s whore, carrying his bastards._ Septa Mordane’s accusing face flashed in front of her eyes. _But at least I don’t have to worry about looking shabby_. After eight years of doing her own embroidery, there was something to be said for that. _0_

“I hope that you have been treated with courtesy by my kin.”

“Prince Jon has been a paragon. You would never think he’s spent all these years with criminals and wildlings up at the Wall. And I know Lord Arryn quite well, of course, through Myranda. How charming he always is.”

Sansa paused. There was a gaping omission there. “And my brother?”

Margaery flushed and bit her lip, although there was a gleam to her eye. “There might have been some unkind remarks about the fate of your dowry, and how you were set aside when I was betrothed to Joffrey. He is very young.”

Cold fury swept over Sansa. _Rickon, I will flay you._ She squeezed the Tyrell girl’s hand in sudden sympathy.

“Margaery, I want you to know that you and your husband will be given all courtesies and comforts, both here and at the Red Keep. Although in the circumstances I cannot make any promises, I do intend to make all efforts to protect you from displays of temper like my brother displayed.”

“Oh, I don’t mind in the least. Your brother is quite sweet. And growing up to be very handsome.” Margaery hesitated. “I never had the chance to apologize for what happened when we were girls in the Red Keep.”

Sansa looked quizzically at Margery.

“I mean … I wouldn’t want there to be any hard feelings if we are to be family. When Jon marries my cousin Alys.”

“Marriages can do a great deal to bring families together, in the right circumstances.” _These circumstances are not those circumstances_ , Sansa thought.She had no intention of allowing Jon to become betrothed to anyone except herself, but it was not particularly in her interests to allow the Tyrells to know that. “Alys is a nice girl.”

“She is,” Margaery enthused. “Dutiful, accomplished, and very pretty. We are all very proud of her. Bookish – which your cousin isn’t -- but then Jon is so fond of his friend Sam, the maester. Isn’t there a saying that opposites attract?”

_Oh, nice touch. I wouldn’t have thought of that approach._

“The match has things to recommend it,” Sansa said neutrally, taking a sip of her tea. “And it is good to know that the Tyrells are happy with the arrangement as proposed, and not attempting to make it anything more. No doubt it must be tempting for you to imagine yourself as Queenmaker, if you cannot be Queen yourself.”

Margaery’s smile slipped a notch. “I …”

“Jon’s suggestion makes me nervous.” Sansa put a hand on her belly. “If anything were to happen to my children, he would be heir to the throne. It might be tempting for the ambitious to take advantage of that.” There was a dead silence. _No, Margaery. I am not as naïve as you think I am._ She continued briskly. “But fortunately for all concerned, your brother Willas and I have been corresponding for years. My interests have been north of the Trident, on the whole, and his have been south, but we have learned to communicate well to avoid … unpleasantness. Your presence here is a signal of good faith from Willas.”

Margaery’s face suddenly went as white as milk.

Sansa stopped. This was awkward. “I’m sorry … surely you knew that you were a hostage.”

She had intended this talk as a caution against the Tyrell girl putting any plans of her own in motion. _A dose of moon tea, a dram of poison …_ Those things might still have been in the back of Margaery’s mind. But Sansa had thought she’d known risks she was taking.

She felt a rush of pity. _They dangled a crown in front of her like a child’s toy. Maybe they told her she would always be safe, protected. She probably believed it, too. Now Margaery is learning that those who love her will not always act in her best interests. That is a bitter cup to taste._

“So if my family moves against you to make Alys queen, you kill me?”

“Oh, no, I would never do that.” Sansa was genuinely startled and dismayed. _Didn’t Olenna teach her better than this?_

“Then what is the point of holding me?”

Sansa hesitated, but there was no point in obsecrating. It would be crueller to leave Margaery wondering.   _And it is never too late for a bit of education in the way the game is played._

“Of course I would not kill you. I would kill your husband. Then Loras, and Garlan if I can arrange it. I would offer you in marriage to a Florent. The Tyrells have none of the blood of the Gardener Kings, as you know well. I’m sure that if a marriage to you was secured, they could make a credible attempt on Highgarden.”

“Never!” Margaery’s eyes were wide with fear and fury. “I would never—I would die first.”

“Would you? How would you arrange that? Happily, the situation will not arise,” Sansa said. “It is not in the interests of either side for that scenario to play out. The point of having a hostage is so that the need to take action never materializes.” Sansa patted Margaery’s hand. “You’ve had a shock, but I’m sure that when you think it over, you will see that I am right, and that there is nothing to fret about. Have a lemoncake. I find them very comforting in hard times.”

***

The ride down from the castle in a litter had been trying, but it was well worth it, Sansa thought. The day was bright, so their attendants had strung up an impromptu pavilion by the side of the bay to shelter them as they ate. There were snails cooked in onions and butter with soft white rolls to soak up the sauce; scallops nearly as big as Ermensande’s palm on beds of steamed greens; candied walnuts and strawberries served with thickened cream. Shaggydog and Ghost splashed in the shallows. One of the maids plucked at a lute; the woman was a terrible lady’s maid, but a fine musician whose primary duty was caring for Sansa’s instruments.

After eating, Rickon announced his intention to swim. He stripped off his clothes and dropped them in a heap. He strolled down the sand. Half way there, he bent over to scratch his foot. Sansa put her hand in front of Ermensande’s eyes. Even Lyanna winced.

“Sometimes Rickon looks so much like Jon,” Sweetrobin observed.

Lyanna let out a peal of laughter. She gave Sansa and Robin a sharp look, then held out her hand to Ermensande. “Come swim with me. We can wear our shifts,” she added at the girl’s dubious look.

“I don’t know how.”

“Wade, then. And I’ll show you how when you are ready to learn. A noble-born girl will never lack for people who will tell them what not to do. Sometimes one has to break out of the mould.”

Ermensande looked to Sansa, who nodded permission. The girl broke out into a wide smile.

Sansa watched the two girls walk along the beach together in their shifts, the wolves running about them. Ermensande had grown an inch or so, and the thin fabric showed the beginnings of breasts and hips. She had changed in confidence, too, Sansa thought, as she watched Ermensande firmly push Ghost away from her before he could shake himself. Lyanna threw a stick into the water, and the direwolf splashed after it.

“Lyanna is good for Rickon,” she said. “They’ve both matured this last year. And I’m glad you and Rickon are getting to know each other.”

“Rickon is fine in small doses. I was stuck on a ship with them for a fortnight,” Robert said with a visible shudder. “They gave each other sheep’s grease massages on deck. In the nude. I’ve seen far more of my cousin than I ever expected to.”

Sansa laughed. “You should have seen him when I first got him back from the Wildlings. Think of the hill clans.”

“They are so energetic,” Robin said. “All that sweating.”

“Ruins clothes,” Sansa agreed, with a sniff. “And then one becomes smelly.” She sobered, and looked out to the water. “What do you think of Ermensande?”

Robert looked down at his plate. Sansa could see the sudden tension in his shoulders. “She’s a sweet girl. I don’t like Jon, but he did the right thing sending her to me for safety.”

“She is a dear little thing. Clever and loyal. She’ll flower soon.” _Time to cut to the heart of the matter_. “I’d like you to consider a betrothal.”

He had seen where she was going with this, likely before the table for their small feast had even been laid. Robert sighed. “We have been scheming to wed me to Wylla Manderly for years. Even if it had not been formalized, the Manderlys make good friends and bad enemies. And Wylla and I get along acceptably well.” He shrugged. “She doesn’t like it when I look at her breasts, and I won’t eat her grandfather’s pies, but there are worse starts to a marriage.”

“True,” Sansa said. _Like all of my betrothals and marriages, for example._ “But Ermensande has inherited great lands and wealth, and her holdings are not too far from the Vale.”

“The Manderly marriage was to secure control over shipping trade in the Bite,” Robert said. “You know the plan as well as I. Control shipping on the east coast, put a road from east to west through Mount Cailin, encourage the Ironborn to trade not raid, and secure the riches of the Riverlands with the might of the north and the vale. And the Freys get the shaft.”

He raised his cup, and she touched it with hers.

“I know, Robin. But … that was all premised on our family controlling the Northern Alliance, and having no ties to the south. Things have changed. It would help the throne if the Vale was connected to the most powerful house of the Crownlands.”

“You want to abandon the plan.” He shifted. “Sansa, we’ve worked for years to strengthen the Northern Alliance. The wealth of the Riverlands, the resources of the north, and the security of the Vale, all working together.”

“Things have changed. Our family is connected to the future of the Targaryens through my children. And who are you to talk about abandoning the plan? Robert, what were you thinking with this talk of declaring independence?”

He flushed. “We should have thought it out more, I admit. I had intended to talk to you and Jon before raising it. But—“

“But? _BUT?_ You were going to start a war.”

“Do you truly expect me to maintain homage and fealty to the man who raped you? What kind of honour would I have if I did nothing?”

Sansa sighed. “Rickon drew his sword and offered to fight for me. Quite dramatically. Were you planning on doing something similar?” She looked out to the bay _. I want to think about how beautiful this day is. I want a day free._

Robert’s voice was quiet. “Not dramatically.”

Sansa looked back. She didn’t even see it at first. Laying on the table between them was something that hadn’t been there a moment ago. A dagger. It was undecorated, at first glance seemily an ordinary blade. But on closer examination, the black handle was dragonbone, the smoky darkness of the blade Valyerian steel. Her breath caught.

“That blade started a war once before,” she said. “You shouldn’t have kept it.”

“Was my father wrong to defy the mad king, when he demanded he surrender Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon?”

“I’m going to King’s Landing. I’m going to stay there. If Jon can do something about Aegon, so be it. But, if not, I will find a way to live with Aegon. I have to.” She forced her voice to remain strong. _I must be Alayne now. Alayne, whom Robert loves, who he is used to listening to_. “He’s not so bad. He wrote me the funniest letter –“

“Sansa,” Robert interrupted. “I know Aegon, remember? The Vale is close to the Crownlands, and he hunts in the Vale regularly. I know what he is like. And … he’s wonderful. When he wants to be. When he turns the charm on you. He says all the right things. But he will never change. He doesn’t want to.”

She sighed, and looked at her plate. “Sweetrobin—“

“Baelish wanted me dead. You didn’t accept that. Just take the knife.” Robert said. “You don’t have to close off any possibilities. You have choices.”

 _You have choices,_ Aegon had said, that night at Harrenhal. Sansa shivered, and her fingers closed around the hilt. Robert quietly passed her the sheath.

“I wanted this to be a happy day,” she said. 

Robert nodded. “I could make fun of Jon some more, if that would help?”

His tone was completely serious. Sansa found herself laughing.

“Sir Gloom and Doom.   Lord Fog -- because he is thick and grey and rather dense.   Prince mopes-a-lot. Prince dark cloud.   Lord woe-is-me. The moping dragon …”

And somehow, despite everything, it was a happy day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Tommy, who thought up all Robert's names for Jon. :)
> 
> Willas Tyrell is going to show up in person soon. For those readers who have also read my story 'Twelve Letters', the character is going to be consistent with the Willas in that story, but Twelve Letters doesn't take place in the same universe as Ties.
> 
> I'm basing the Star of the North on the Star of India, which is at the natural history museum in New York: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Star_of_India_%28gem%29


	36. Summerhall

The beginnings of the end of the Targaryen dynasty lay at Summerhall. Daeron II had unified the seven kingdoms when he brought Dorne under his rule. His palace of Summerhall had been built as a place of pleasure rather than war. Two generations later, Aegon V, the last great Targaryen king, had burned inside with half his court. Targaryen rule had survived only two decades more before Aerys met his end on Jaime Lannister’s sword and Rhaegar died in the waters of the Trident. Now vines climbed the crumbling walls and rain fell from the sky like tears.

Jon slogged his way through the mud. He didn’t like the layout of the walls of Summerhall. They had been intended to delineate gardens, not to keep out enemies. Jon felt like he was always looking over his shoulder. When he saw walls trail off into nothing but weeds and wildflowers of vines, he twitched. _What I wouldn’t give for a few good builders to get this place into shape_.  

But here, at Summerhall, the south had brought its finest. Great hosts were camped. The proud knights had multi-coloured pavilions, the lesser folk in plain-dyed tents and shanty-shacks, or sleeping wrapped in oil-skins beneath the stars. Great lords and lesser had come, up the boneway from Dorne, east and west from Highgarden and Dorne, even from the Westerlands and the Riverlands. Sigils flew, bright armour flashed, hawks soared in the air, and coursing hounds paced about as proud as princes.

Jon had never seen most of the armies that fought under his command at the Wall. And those had been practical fighters, brought to fight an enemy incapable of fear. Jon’s hosts had been utilitarian. _In other words,_ he thought, _my troops looked like shit and smelled worse. As did I. Even before we fought the living dead._ Jon was trying hard not to be intimidated, and failing.  

Not far beyond the fields of canvas were the roofs of the town. Summerhall sat at the conflux of three kingdoms: Dorne, the Reach and the Stormlands.  Markets drew merchants and customers. In recent years there had been other influences – the Lady of Storm’s End did not tolerate the fanatics of the Red God, and many that Shireen had expelled from her lands had settled here.

Jon frowned. Shireen. That had been an unwelcome development. Davos had been a valuable ally in King’s Landing. He had not anticipated that Shireen might take a different position.

He had been glad to see her when he arrived. The sweet girl he had known had grown along with her reputation, and she was near as tall as him. The scars of greyscale on her cheek were now accompanied by burn scars on her neck and hands. Jon remembered how she had gained those, and he shuddered at the memory.

He had heard tales of her after he sent her south to what he had hoped would be safety. When other lords closed their borders to victims of the plague of greyscale, Shireen had welcomed them. The stories told that she would walk amongst the afflicted clad in grey, showing no fear. As the illness spread to every corner of the south, the legend of the Grey Lady had spread with it. Her name had become at least as powerful as Jon’s.

The High Septon had been forced to publicly acknowledge the secret marriage between Aegon and Sansa. There was no way around that; any doubt that her child might be Tyrion’s had to be quelled. The news had set the gathering at Summerhall alight.

Shireen had come to Jon that night, her cloak drawn around herself, her eyes dark with anger.

“Aegon and Sansa would risk religious war,” she had said. “The Faith is near schism. The followers of the other gods are close to revolt. What would have happened if Arianne had refused to agree to being set aside, and this marriage in the Great Sept before all the nobles could not take place? The succession itself would be in doubt.”

Jon had attempted to explain, but Shireen had been adamant.

“Your sister would make herself queen, but she gambles the peace of the realm she would rule for the sake of her child. You would never have done such a thing. Nor my father.”

Jon was even less sure about the other Lords Paramount. Trystane Martell did not hide his fury – Jon had not spoken more than three words to him outside the courtesies. Martyn Lannister was all bluster, and an unfortunate striking resemblance to Joffrey Baratheon. Jon could barely stand to be in the same room as the man, knowing what he had done. And a Lannister lord could hardly be expected to welcome a Stark queen. Willas Tyrell had been non-committal and largely silent. Jon had turned more than once to find the Lord of Highgarden watching him. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he was being assessed like a possibly-lame tourney horse Willas was thinking of buying.

He stopped at the shores of a small lake. It must have been built when Summerhall was occupied. The shape was far too regular for nature, and the weeping willows on the banks were too regular to be the work of nature.

Jon found a few flat stones, and skimmed one over the water. It bounced a half-dozen times before sinking and leaving nothing but spreading ripples. A small bird was sitting on a branch above his head. Its song echoed across the water.

Someone was coming through the trees.

_Hell._

Jon had not spoken to Elia Sand since the night of the ball. In truth, he had been avoiding her like a craven. He would have rather faced a horde of the undead. He found himself eyeing the surroundings. Could he duck behind a rock and then crawl behind the bushes to get away?

 _It wasn’t her fault that I was off in the stables when someone tried to kill my sister_ , Jon thought. _My decisions were my own. What did I think – that nothing bad could happen? To a Stark? In King’s Landing? What in my life lead me to that delusion?_     

Elia came with downcast eyes. She was wearing Dornish robes in brown silk shot through with golden threads, her eyes lined with kohl. She had thrown a cloak on against the intermittent drizzle. Its hood framed her face.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” she said.

Jon looked at her, then forced himself to look away. “It seemed best,” he answered. “I am sorry about the night of the ball. I behaved badly.”

Her lips curled into a smile. “I didn’t mind.”

“You weren’t the only person I behaved badly towards, nor is my misconduct yours to forgive.” _I sound like an ass_. “Elia,” he stumbled. “You are Arianne’s cousin, and Aegon’s too. My loyalty has to be to my sister and to the realm. I am grateful for what you told me, but I think it best—“

She stepped forward swiftly and grabbed his arm. “Don’t send me away. I can help you. I want …” She hesitated, and then her voice came out in a rush. “I can help you with Rhaegal.”

It felt as if the whole world stopped. Even the bird had ceased singing, although it was still there, silent on its branch.

“You have my attention,” he said slowly. “What is it exactly that you are suggesting?”

“You know the problem as well as I do. A dragon needs a rider. If … if Aegon dies, what happens? Does Rhaegal go feral? He’s not a wild beast. He’s far more dangerous. He’s lived in cities all his life: Quarth, Meereen, here. King’s Landing is his home. It is where he feeds.”

Jon shifted. In his time in the capital, Jon had watched the dragons in their shared pit. Viserion disliked the air of King’s Landing, the closed spaces, the presence of people. He did not fear humans – never that, not a dragon – but he would avoid them if he could. In the north, Jon had no fear that he would approach a Wildling settlement or steal domesticated beasts. He loved the freedom of the air and the hunt.

Rhaegal was a different matter – less solitary, more curious. He did not mind the confined spaces of the city or the presence of humans. Jon had even seen him land on towers and look into castle windows. Aegon had acknowledged that one of the reasons that he had not sought to restore the ruined Dragonpit was the need for him to be close enough to his dragon to intervene in moments should there be a problem.

And for all that Rhaegal was smaller and more agile than his brother, he was still growing rapidly. Both dragons were considerably larger than Drogon had been when he died. Rhaegal’s body was the size of a small horse, although his wings made him appear much larger.

Jon spent many a night considering the problem, sitting on the parapet above the dragonpit, with the steam rising from the hides of the great beasts and the lights of the city all around him. He had seen the skulls of the great dragons of history in the throne room with their empty eye sockets a man could climb through.  

 _We would have all died on the Wall if it hadn’t been for the dragons._ And for all that Bran had assured him there was no sign of the Others returning, that was no guarantee for the future. _We need the dragons_. And for all Aegon’s faults, he kept control of his dragon.

 _How does one kill a dragonrider, without leaving a wild dragon? Not even wild. Feral._ Jon thought of the city he had come to love in a few short moons, and shivered.

Jon had hoped that Bran would be able to help. If he could find a way to take Rhaegal north, his brother’s powers might allow the dragon to be safely constrained. But the weirwood he had planted had gone black, and the network of the trees had been silent when Jon had touched it. Blood magic and curses, Jon had thought, and he had been afraid.

“How is it that you think you can help?” he said slowly.

Elia’s eyes were bright. “There is Targaryen blood in the Martells. I have been around Rhaegal for years. Now Viserion. Whatever makes a Targaryen different from an ordinary person, I have it, I know I do.” She took a breath. “I am a dragonseed.”

“You can’t be sure,” Jon shook his head. _This is madness. But … it is a chance._

He had not contemplated the possibility of other dragonriders. He thought back to those desperate months at the Wall, when they only had two dragons under firm control. _We tried Stannis, and he failed. Whatever the magic was, it didn’t pass to him. Gods forgive us, we even tested Shireen, and if she had passed we would have strapped her to a dragon and set her into battle._

 _Could we have won that final battle without Aegon?_ Jon was a warg. Dany had learned to ride without the pressures of battle. Aegon had fought ice-dragons the day after he was bonded to Rhaegal. _In truth, we didn’t know if he would survive. I don’t think he knew, either. By all the Gods, he was brave._

Jon tried to make himself think. _Another rider. Free Sansa while still keeping King’s Landing safe. A solution. A way out of this damnable mess._ He wanted that so badly that he could almost taste it. _Fighting man to man, I could defeat Aegon._ He pushed aside all the implications of that. His head was spinning. “What makes you think that you could succeed?”

Elia spoke quickly, eagerly. “I’ve studied Daenerys. I’ve walked in her footsteps: the Great Grass Sea, the Red Wastes, Quarth, Astapour. I went to Meereen. Daenerys had the same problem you face. Dragons without riders. She approached someone she thought could become one of the heads of the dragon, a man with Targaryen blood. My cousin Quentyn.”

A shock passed through Jon’s body at that name. Suddenly he was back at the Wall, in the depths of the unending night, with Barristan Selmy sitting opposite him, telling him of the agonizing death of the young Dornish prince after he had been burned by dragonfire. It had been the night before Jon had ridden Viserion for the first time, before they had known why the dragons were drawn to Jon. He had been preparing to take a terrible gamble. Barristan had wanted Jon to know exactly what he was risking.

Jon found himself looking at her as if seeing her for the first time. Suddenly it was as if all her qualities had changed, as if until now he had been seeing a beautiful reflection in a still pool, all its faults smoothed away. All the things he had found attractive on their first meeting were still there. Her energy, like a caged tiger, like a danger waiting to go on the stage – he could still feel its draw. But now – _does she have any idea of what she is suggesting?_

“Quentyn died,” Jon said, steeping away from her. “Do you know how?”

“Of course I do. I brought his bones back to Sunspear. Do you think I haven’t thought on what happened to him?” Her voice was assured. “But I’ve spent my whole life preparing for this. I’m a rider of horses, the best of my generation. The dragons react to me. Aegon and I tested that out long ago. Rhaegal knows me. Quentyn died because he rushed into it, but I know better. If we work together, practice, you can help me. You’ve done it before. I’ll take Rhaegal somewhere safe and make sure he doesn’t harm anyone. I can do this, I know I can.”

“No.”

She stopped, and her face went slack with amazement. Jon wondered if Elia Sand had ever heard that word before in her life.

“I don’t question your skill, or your physical courage. But you are asking me to give you a dragon. You are right. I did do it once before. I gave a dragon to Aegon.”

Her face paled. “I’m not Aegon,” she protested. “I’m not like him. All the things that happened before … I’m sorry about that. I’ve told you that I am sorry. I want to make things right.” Her voice was shakier now, her words coming faster. “Rhaegal – I wouldn’t use him against anyone. I just want to fly. We could go to Dragonstone, or Skaagos, or the North. We’d find some place that is safe.”

“It won’t work,” Jon said. “Believe me, I know. You can’t be a dragonrider and expect the world to leave you alone. You can’t abrogate your responsibility.”

She blinked, and for a moment he thought she wavered. Then she waved her hand. “I don’t care about politics, I never have.”

“You don’t care about the governance of the realm,” Jon asked incredulously, “and you think you should control a dragon?” She opened her mouth, and he shook his head. “The answer is no.”

Her face contorted in sudden fury. “I thought you would see reason. But you’re a fool, Jon Snow. You need me.  You're just too stupid to see it.” She turned and ran, vanishing amongst the willows. The bird took to the air over her head.

When she was gone, Jon sat down heavily on a rock, and buried his face in his hands. _Have I just surrendered my best chance of helping Sansa?_ He didn’t know. _Every choice I make seems to be wrong._

The lake gave him no answers. In the end, he trudged back through ruined gardens and past silly ornamental walls until he reached the rows of brightly coloured pavilions. He found his own – a loan from Aegon, all in black and red silk.

There was a folded piece of parchment on his writing desk. Jon picked it up, and opened it, curious. A golden rose was magnificently illustrated at the top in green and gold ink.

_I believe we have much to discuss. If you agree, meet me at the ruined sept._

_Willas Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden_

 


	37. The Gardener

_To Aegon_

_Septa Giana says that I am progressing well in the course of my pregnancy.  Apparently I am too thin and suffer too much emotional distress, but otherwise am in excellent condition for a first time mother to be.  I have sources of information that tell me you know what Jon and I said to each other on Dragonstone before he departed.  I find myself obligated to express gratitude for your recent action regarding the attendants at my birthing bed._

_I have read that last over, and it sounds cold.  Let me attempt it again.  I am grateful to you. Be assured I have no desire to die in some political scheme.  I never wanted to play this game.   But you know that._

_Let me be frank with you; despite all that has happened we understand each other better than most.  I am sure the quarters you have decorated are lovely, but I suggest that it is unwise that I spend, as you put it, ‘a great deal of time there’.  I shall return to Dragonstone the morning after our wedding, along with my brother and cousin and all their forces.  I shall remain there for the rest of my confinement.  I am not asking your permission.  Should you live to see the autumn, which I am sure you appreciate is in doubt, you can come to me and we will discuss the future._

_I regret stabbing you.  This is not because of your suffering, although I hope you understand that I take no pleasure in that. But I have had time and space to think, and I understand now how foolish and unnecessary it was.  I placed myself in a prison of fear when I could have set the realm on fire.  But I do not want to think of such things.  Surely you can see that it is in everyone’s best interest that I remain out of the coming conflict between you and Jon._

_Dragonstone is lovely.  This island is my children’s heritage.  I can imagine them growing up here.  I know you have no memories of your life here, but your mother must have laid you down in the same nursery I am preparing for our babes. Perhaps she thought, as I do, of a day when her child runs in the sand on these beaches and climbs on these rocks._

_People think I should be sad.  How little they know.  When I was at Winterfell, my friend Jeyne had a babe.  I sewed swaddling clothes for little Vanyel, and I thought that nobody knew how I wept over them.  This morning a chest of my things arrived from Winterfell.  Jeyne put the swaddling clothes in there.  I have laid them ready for the day that I become a mother, and I could weep again, but this time from joy.  These children will be with me soon._

_Sansa._

*** 

_Dear Jon;_

_I hope this letter finds you well.  They say that Summerhall is very beautiful, even in its ruins.  Do you remember the singer who came to Winterfell when we were children?  He knew a ballad about Aegon the Unlikely, and the Duncans Tall and Small, and Jenny of Oldstones.  I loved that ballad._

_Ghost is well.  I think he likes Dragonstone, and he likes having Shaggydog with him.  The direwolves are attached to their littermates.  I think I am sometimes included in that group; the wolves rarely leave me alone unless I order it._

_I am happy on Dragonstone, perhaps more happy than I have been anywhere except Winterfell in my youth.  Perhaps even happier than that.  I am mistress here.  The walls are strong and I am staffing it with loyal people from the Vale and the North.  All I must do is leave her once for this farce of a wedding, and I can return to the island, hopefully for good. And soon my children will be with me._

_I both hope and believe that you will prevail against Aegon, but understand that I do not intend to risk myself on your behalf.  Should he be victorious, I will negotiate what I can with him.  And should you survive, as I pray that you do, we must be wed.  But I shall not be ruled by you or by any man._

_Your sister, Sansa._

***

Jon sat down on his camp-bed, the note from Willas Tyrell in his hand _.  What does this mean?_   He had been at Summerhall for near a week.  He’d spoken with the man briefly.  The Tyrell lord had been nothing more than cordial.  _Why now?_    He weighed the letter in his hand, thinking over his options. 

He folded the paper, stood, and paced through his pavilion.  It had been a loan from Garlan Tyrell, and it was larger and more luxurious than any chamber he had slept in before he arrived at the Eyrie.   The furniture folded for ease of transport, but it was all beautifully carved from expensive woods.  The floor had fresh rushes and piles of furs, and there was a flask of fine wine on the table. 

Jon stopped and looked around.  There had been something that had been niggling at his mind.  The perfectly arranged pavilion was a loose thread, just one amongst so many.  But he didn’t like loose threads.  He called for a servant and asked to speak to Lucion. 

When the old man entered, his eyes were wary.  Jon got straight to the point. 

“What are you _doing_ here?”

The old man hesitated.  “Your Grace … Lord Martyn … he refused to take my service.  I was by the side of Lord Tywin from his youth, and Lord Martyn … he blames his uncle for the calamities that befell the Lannisters.  The death of his father, his older brother, and his twin, the ruin of so much of the Westerlands … Lord Tyrion had his resentments, and I cannot say he was not justified, but he accepted his duty to his father’s retainers.  Lord Martyn … he is young, and he is angry.”

“Why can’t you return to your home?”  _The man must be nearing seventy,_ thought Jon.   

“Lord Tywin was most generous in his will, but I had four sons hoping to become knights, and a daughter in need of a dowry.”  Deep lines of sorrow furrowed his brow. “My children are buried in the Westerlands.  But my daughter and her husband left three girls whom I care for.”  He took a breath.  “Your Grace, I had thought to ask if you had need of another man in your household.”  There was a hopeless note to his voice.

 _Girls._ “How old are your granddaughters?”

“The eldest is eleven.”

Jon took a deep, unhappy breath.  Martyn Lannister’s actions were outrageous. For a lord to refuse the service of a man long sworn to his family cut to the heart of the obligations of a nobleman.  _Father would expect me to agree._   If it had been a stranger, Jon would have done so without a second’s hesitation.  

The silence stretched between them.  Finally Jon spoke.

“The Red Wedding.”

_Robb’s smile.  The tears in his eyes.  The snowflakes melting in his hair._

“I had no part in the planning,” Lucion said quickly.

“Did you know about it before it happened?”

Lucion hesitated.  Then the man’s shoulders seemed to collapse.  “I did.”  He let out an almost inaudible sigh.  “Thank you for your consideration, your grace.  I will remove my--

Jon closed his eyes.  “Wait,” he said.  “I … I will accept your service.”

Lucion stared at him, and for a moment seemed to be fighting back tears.  “I have no sword,” he said. 

He refused Jon’s offer of Dark Sister, and eventually they found a blunted practice sword.  The old man knelt slowly, and with difficulty.  But his voice was steady and strong.

“I am yours, Prince Jon. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours, if need be.  I will to you be true and faithful, and love all which you love and shun all which you shun. I swear it by the old gods and the new.” 

“I vow that you and yours shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table, and pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you into dishonour. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

They clasped hands as Jon had seen Ned Stark do hundreds of times.  He had taken oaths as Regent before, with Rickon at his side.  But never on his own behalf.  It was a strange thing, and felt of far greater significance than a pledge to maintain an old man and provide three dowries to girls of modest birth. 

“Would my lord wish a bath and fresh clothes before he meets with Lord Tyrell?”

Jon raised an eyebrow.  He hadn’t shown Lucion the note.

“Old men gossip,” Lucion said.  “And few of the nobility take note of what we do or where we go. I like to keep my ear to the ground.  I’m sure that there is little I know that would be a surprise to your grace.  Of course, you know that this invitation is no coincidence, after your conversation with Lady Sand earlier.”

“You know about that?”

“Not the substance of what passed between you, of course.  But Elia came back to camp very upset, and was quite loud when she talked to her sister.  And I came to know her quite well when she was at court.  She was very friendly with Lord Tyrion.  They used to talk about dragons, and he would lend her books.  I believe they had ideas about trying to breed the creatures.”

“What do you think of her?”

“Elia Sand is … sincere, and generally honest.  That is not the same thing as saying that she is trustworthy.  She is not the wisest young women.  Of course, both she and her sister Loreza are close to Willas Tyrell.  He was a good friend of their father.  I believe that they have dined with the Tyrells several times in the last few days.”

It was a connection he had been aware of, Elia and Willas.  She had told him herself.  But Lucion was hinting at something more complicated, and potentially more dangerous.  She thinks herself to be a dragonseed.  She could well be right.  _And the one of the most powerful families in the realm is cultivating her.  Has been for years._   It was a discomfiting thought.

***

Jon didn’t know what he had expected at the abandoned well.  He’d been surprised at the choice of rendezvous for a politically sensitive meeting.  It was late afternoon, and the rain had stopped, so the likelihood of passers-by was strong.  He had imagined that a servant would meet him and guide him to a more discreet setting.

Instead, he was met by Willas Tyrell’s mother, the dowager Lady of Highgarden, with a swarm of dogs and children in her wake.  Jon knew little of Lady Alerie except that she was a Hightower by birth.  He found her to be a dignified older woman with a sheaf of silver hair.  Her smile was warm, her curtsy impeccable.   But before Jon could bend over her hand, he found himself surrounded. 

“Will you play Guardians on the Wall with us?”

“Is that Dark Sister?” 

“Can I hold it?”

“No, me!”

“I asked first!”

“Woof.”

Jon looked about with dismay.  He didn’t think himself terribly good with young children, and none of these was more than six.  It felt like there were dozens of them.  Most of them were waving wooden swords.  He was forced to step back to avoid one implement making hard contact with his knee.  Then one of the dogs – a rangy wolfhound nearly as tall in the shoulder as Ghost and probably as heavy as Jon himself – moved to jump up on him. 

The dog’s thoughts were simple.  Jon had to make no more than superficial contact, and the backlash shock of connecting with a new creature was no more than a tremor in his mind.  He snapped his fingers, and pointed down.  The dog went instantly to the ground.

“Wow!” 

“Amazing!”

“Can you do that to Garath?”

“Hey!”

“Woof?”

“Children,” Alerie chided.  “This is a prince of the realm.  Please show some respect.”  She smiled.  “Your grace, what a pleasure to meet you, on this lovely afternoon.  Would you care to walk with me?”

And it was that simple.  There was a seemingly impromptu picnic in the ruins of the great hall.  The Tyrells had set up tables.  The adults were drinking Arbour Gold and eating honey cakes with grapes, and goat cheese, while the children played across the stones.  Servants clad in green were everywhere.  Jon was introduced to Lady Myranda, a plump smiling woman with a babe at the breast and a toddler clinging to her skirts.   One of the children boisterously waving swords about was hers too, he was given to understand.

The Lord of Highgarden was Tyrell to his fingertips, all immaculate green silks and a look of effortless arrogance.  (It was the way, Jon thought, that Robert Arryn probably imagined he looked while he was insulting someone, instead of like an obnoxious little weasel.)  Willas was as handsome as his brother Garlan was, as his brother Loras would have been if not for the burns.  But he lacked Garlan’s warmth and Loras’s vulnerability. 

“Jon Snow, the legitimized Targaryen bastard, I presume?”  Willas raised an eyebrow.  “Or do you prefer to be thought of as a Stark bastard?”

 _So,_ Jon thought.  _There is even a noticeable deficit of Margaery’s charm._ He looked at the other man carefully.  The words and the tone had been mocking, but the expression was watchful.  _He is testing me._

“The view from the north tower is quite spectacular,” Myranda commented.  “Willas, why don’t you show our guest?”  She crooked a smile.  “And try to be nice.”

They strolled to the tower, a couple of dogs at their heels, as if it was no more than a social occasion.  A few of the children wanted to tag along, but Willas dispatched them with a kindly word.  He leaned on a cane, and his steps were halting.  Jon let him set the pace. 

The tower had once been tall, but only the three lowest levels remained, and the highest of those was open to the sky.  Birds were singing, and some few were perched on the stone walls.  The voices of children echoed up from the gathering below.  In that roofless chamber, in a corner shielded from outside eyes by the remains of walls, someone had set a table and two chairs.  There was a snowy white table cloth and golden goblets of wine. 

 _The Tyrells even plot in style,_ Jon thought.

He waited for Willas to seat himself, and realized that the Tyrell Lord was waiting for him to move first.  _Right.  Prince._ It felt strange for a boy who grew up sitting below the salt to be expected to take precedence at a Lord Paramount’s own table. 

The wine was as fine on the palate as anything served in the Red Keep.  It was a dark red in color: expertly aged so that the flavours were rich and complex.  Not Dornish, of course.  No Lord of the Reach would serve a guest Dornish wine.  Willas explained that it came from vineyards around Oldtown. 

“You asked me here to talk,” Jon said. 

“I did.”

“And … are you going to talk?”

“I rather thought I was.”

“I don’t have much patience for games,” Jon said.  “I’m grateful for the help you and your family have provided.  I’m not sure I could have managed having Aegon agree to Sansa going to Dragonstone without Garlan’s support.  But –“

“But.”

“Yes,” Jon said, suppressing a sigh.  “But.  I suggested the possibility of a marriage alliance.  I am no longer in a position to follow through on that agreement.”

Willas did not look particularly surprised.  He raised an eyebrow.  “Are you planning to wed Sansa, should your brother … suffer misfortune?”

“I am sorry –“

“Do not apologize: I had concerns about your proposed match with Alys.”  Willas’s tone was brisk.  “I do expect consideration for our help.  But there are alternatives.  I have two sons and a daughter.  I propose an understanding that one of them will be wed to Aegon and Sansa’s child, to be formalized at soon as you are in a position to do so.”

“I’m in no position to agree to that.” 

“Of course you are.  Let us be frank.  You intend to kill your brother. And if you do not, someone else is likely to.  When that happens, you will be regent of the realm, at the very least, should your sister have a boy.”

“Sansa—“

“After Cersei Lannister, no woman has a chance at holding the throne as regent for her minor son.  Sansa will have precisely as much power as you allow her to have.”  Willas paused.  “And if she has a girl, you will be King.”

 _She won’t._ Jon thought of the face of that young man with the Stark look and his father’s violet eyes.  He looked into his drink, trying to keep the relief from his face. 

“And of course, even if she does have a boy … the realm has suffered so much.  It needs stability.  If you were to take the throne, you could name Sansa’s son as your heir.  Of course, we can only hope he does not inherit his father’s instability.” 

 _Regent of the realm … at the very least._ “You want me to take the throne over the claim of Aegon’s true born son?” Jon asked in disbelief.  “Commit treason against my own nephew?  Cut my sister out of power?”

“You are contemplating acting against your brother, the rightful king,” Willas observed.  “Even if you could prove your accusations against him, which you cannot, the lady married him of her own free will.  Even the lowest smallfolk might not be held to account in those circumstances. Treason is already on the table.  I am asking you to think of the realm.” 

“I will hold Aegon to account.  But you are asking me to betray my sister and her unborn child.  No.  Never.”  He shook his head, repulsed.  “I thought you cared for Sansa.”

“You think I do not?”  Willas shook his head.  “I was a fool not to keep a better eye on what was happening in the Red Keep.  Everyone likes Garlan: he has access to the highest level of confidences.  But my brother has a regrettable tendency to see only the best in people.  My sister hears less, but she has a more suspicious mind.  I should have made sure they were both at court.  As it was, I did not begin to suspect Aegon was the king he seemed until the foolishness with that madman Darkstar.  And even then … I never foresaw what happened at Harrenhal.  I will regret that until the day I die.  I was _there_.  Even after … if she had come to me and Myranda … we could have protected her.  Ensured that she had the moon tea.”

“It was not your responsibility.  The failure was mine.”

Willas looked into the distance, and his eyes were suddenly sad.  “There was a time when Sansa might have been my wife.”  He took a drink of his wine.  “Did you know?  No, why would you?  It was proposed to her three times.  The first was by my grandmother during the war.  She thought to bring Sansa to Highgarden in the guise of a visit, and have us wed then.  The marriage to Tyrion put an end to that plan.  Then in the winter, my father sent agents to Winterfell to enquire about the rumours her marriage had not been consummated and ask if she intended to seek an annulment.  He was dead of greyscale before he received her refusal.  And then,” Willas paused.  “I asked for her hand myself, in person, the night before I signed the betrothal agreements with Myranda.”

Jon blinked.  “Did you love her?”  It was not unheard of for the heir to a great house to seek to marry for love, but it was rare.  And to insult an important house of the Vale in doing so … “But she refused you.”

“She did.  Without an explanation.”  Willas’s voice was clipped, and his gaze was far away.  “I suppose it was presumptuous of me, but I had to ask.  Things have worked out.  Myranda and I are happy together.  But I’d be lying if said I had not thought of how things might have been.”  He shook his head.  “But that is the past.  We came here to discuss the future.  The future of the realm.”

“And of the dragons?” Jon said quietly.  “Tell me, Lord Tyrell, what you intended with Elia Sand.”

Willas’s eyes were shadowed.  “I have three young children,” he said.  “And a family.  All the Reach looks to me.  In an age of dragons, are the rest of us to simply take the knee?”

“Elia is not suited to the power of a dragon.”

“Is Aegon?  Are you?”  Willas snorted.  “I know Elia better than either of you, and I trust her more, for all her flaws.  Your brother would disregard the rights of his lords.  He forgets that if history was different, the Lord of Highgarden would be the Gardener King.”

“This isn’t just about Aegon,” Jon said.  “You want to reduce the power of the Iron Throne itself.  The throne that will go to Sansa’s son by rights.”

“Your father intended it,” Willas said. “Rhaegar.  He intended to call a great council and negotiate a new compact with the Lords.  If he had done it, if he had not been waylaid by his own fancies, then Rebellion and the War of the Five Kings might never have happened.  A Westeros at peace, facing the Others … much suffering would have been avoided.  Much injustice.  You could make that vision come true.”

“We are done here.”

There was a moment of long silence.  Then Willas pushed his chair back.  Leaning heavily on his cane, he slowly made his way to the steps.  Then he stopped. There was a long silence. 

Jon said nothing.  Perhaps Willas was waiting for him.  He didn’t want to speak.  In the end, it was the Tyrell lord who did.  And his voice was different, softer. 

“It is true that I’ve never seen a battle.  I never fought for my life.  I’ll probably die never having … but it isn’t true that I haven’t seen things that haunt my dreams.  Things that make me afraid for my children.”  His voice broke on the last word.  “I may be the only person still alive who was in the throne room when the Mad King burned Rickard Stark.”

Jon suddenly felt like there was no breath in his lungs.  Even the birds had gone silent.  Below, there was the sound of laughter, and the clash of wooden swords on each other. 

“All of Westeros knows the story, or did once.  Maybe it has been forgotten after all the horrors of the past ten years. Aegon’s birth was the occasion of rejoicing.  Nobles from all over the south travelled there.  My father had an injury from some tourney, so my parents didn’t travel, but my grandmother brought me to court.  After all, I was the heir to Highgarden.”

“I remember Rhaegar leaving.  A hunting trip they said.  Weeks passed.  And then Brandon Stark was there, calling out Rhaegar.  We thought it all such fun, we young boys.  He was taken into custody, treated with the courtesy due a great lord’s son.  I remember that he would fold parchment birds for us boys and thrown them down from his window.  He put notes to his friends in there, and we would smuggle them to some of the guards.  It was weeks before Rickard Stark rode in to discuss the matter with the King.  I was sure it would all work out, and it was all such fun.  I was just a boy.”

“The next morning my grandmother came to me.  She made me dress in my finest clothes.  I had to come to the throne room.  Aerys had summoned us all to a trial by combat.”  Willas’ eyes were distant.  “It was exciting; we all liked trials by combat.  I dressed.  I remember laughing with the boy who was my servant.  And then my grandmother caught my arm.  She didn’t say much. But I remember that it was the first time I ever thought she looked old.  ‘I don’t know what is going to happen.’  She told me.  ‘But remember, Willas.  Eyes will be on you.  No matter what happens, say nothing, and don’t look away.  And I didn’t.  I watched it all.  Every moment.”

Jon stirred, and the day felt cold despite the heat.  _My grandfather.  Both my grandfathers_.

“I am no man of war, but I have seen much suffering in my lifetime.”  Willas said.  “What will happen when this child is born to take the throne, if Aegon teaches him hate, and Sansa teaches him fear?  Will you turn your back on the realm?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for your patience, and sorry it has been such a long wait. It took a while for this chapter to come together. I'm hoping for the next one to be a bit quicker. I had intended to have an Aegon appearance, but this was getting long. He will definitely show next time!
> 
> All comments are welcome provided people are respectful of each other, but if you enjoyed the chapter I particularly appreciate hearing so! :)


	38. In The Ruins

Jon sat on top of the ruined tower while the sun sank into the west.  The golden light shone over the green fields and hedges, and made the stones of the ruined castle glow.  It was as if the earlier rain had washed the land clean, he thought.  The sounds of laughter from the Tyrell party below faded away.  The seemingly impromptu picnic had served its purpose and they had returned to the luxuries of their pavilions.  Summerhall was quiet again.  At peace. 

Jon had been told that Rhaegar had liked to come here and sleep under the stars with his harp.  He wondered what the man had thought about.  If he had any concept of the chaos his obsessions would loose on the realm.  _If he had wanted a commander for the coming war,_ Jon though, _he could have joined the bloody Night’s Watch himself._

Then he had to laugh to himself.  _Wouldn’t that be a thought.  Imagine Rhaegar Targaryen on a ranging.  He’d be sitting there with his harp, and I would be digging the latrine.  We would be fighting before we were two days out from Castle Black.  And most of the other men would have shanked him before he could even take the oath. I miss those guys._  

A small blue bird was sitting on a branch above him.  This far south, it was no species he recognized.  On a whim, Jon reached out his mind to touch it. 

It was as if a shock ran through his whole body.  There was another mind in the bird.  Clever.  Frightened.  Powerful.  And familiar.

He moved to stretch out his hand, then hesitated.  “Sansa,” he breathed.  “Are you here?”

The bird took to the air, but it did not fly away.  It circled Jon in a flurry of beating wings, then settled on a stone not far away.  It cocked its head as it watched him.

Long leagues lay between Dragonstone and Summerhall, but Jon was a powerful warg, experienced in the use of his powers and secure in his bond with his wolf.  He made a connection as comfortable as slipping into an old garment, and as secure as castle-forged steel.  Paws moved softly over stone as Ghost jumped walls and slipped through open doors.  Jon knew the halls of Dragonstone less well than his wolf, but in this moment they were one, and he could allow Ghost to find their way to the walled garden where Sansa liked to sit in the late afternoons.

She was there, laying on a divan piled with pillows.  The sun was lower here than it was at Summerhall.  Lanters had already been lit against the darkness.  A maid was playing the dulcimer, and Septa Gianna was massaging her calves.  Sansa had her eyes closed.  She looked pale, but her cheeks were less hollow when he saw her last.  At his entry – his _wolf’s_ entry – she opened her eyes. 

“Leave me,” she told her attendants.  “If you please, I would be alone.”  Her lips quirked into a smile at the last, and she looked into the bushes where Ghost lurked.  When they were gone, she pushed herself up onto her elbows. 

“Jon,” she whispered to the wolf.

“Sansa” he replied to the bird.

It took wing again, and circled the tower Jon stood on.  He turned with it.

Ghost glided through the shrubs.

“Are you here?” she asked.  “Are you here with me?” 

He shivered at that reminder of her strength as a warg.  Holding a bond across this distance was no mean feat.  And yet he knew there was a power, too, in his experience.  He touched the bird’s mind. Sansa’s hold strengthened and weakened like a gale.  His own hold on Ghost was steady even with Viserion an echo of fire and chaos in the back of his mind.

“I can hear you,” he called out to the air as the bird flew past.

In the walled garden, Sansa pushed herself upright on the divan.  Suddenly her face transformed into wonder.  She laughed like a child.  “Jon.”  The bird sang over the green fields. 

Jon found himself laughing, too.  Ghost leaped from the bushes onto the soft grass where Sansa’s divan sat.  He found himself exulting in the strength and agility of his wolf.  Seeing Summerhall and Dragonstone together, looking through two sets of eyes … it was remarkable. 

Ghost padded forward and rubbed his head against Sansa’s shoulder.   She smiled, and pushed back against the direwolf’s massive body.  “Get off me, stink-breath,” she said.  The bird climbed in the sky, and then dived towards the tower.  It swooped within a hand’s breath of Jon’s face before veering clear.

He laughed at his own flinch, then he sobered.  “You’ve been listening,” he said to her.  “To me and Willas … and to Elia earlier?”  He remembered the bird that had sat in the tree above them.

Through Ghost’s eyes, he could see her tense in Dragonstone.  She nodded. 

“All that I have done here … was I right?”

Her beautiful face creased into a frown.  “Were you right to not agree to give a dragon to Aegon’s crazy former mistress?  Is that a serious question?  For me?”  She gave Ghost a look that heaped scorn, and the wolf lowered its head.  Through their bond, Jon felt the beast’s gentle reproach for the position it was being put in.

The last light of the sun faded below the horizon at Summerhall. 

Jon took a breath.  “I realize that Elia has her issues.  The prospect of a dragon rider who isn’t Aegon is tempting, but surely we can find a better alternative.  After the wedding, when you are safe on Dragonstone, I intend to travel to the God’s Eye, and speak to Bran through the weirwoods there.  I hope that he can control Rhaegal, or find some other way to help.”

“Could … could I do it?” Sansa asked. 

Ghost scuttled backwards at the backlash of Jon’s dismay.  The possibility had occurred to him, but he had hoped she wouldn’t think of it.  “Sansa, it is dangerous.  Very dangerous.”  

“You managed it.”

Jon snorted.  “I’m the one who lost control of my dragon, remember?  And I have the Targaryen bond to help.  Even Bran struggled.  They are powerful --” 

That was a mistake, and he knew it the instant he said it.  Her eyes narrowed.  “But he could do it.  You could.”

“Sansa, a dragon’s mind – it is complicated.  They are creatures of magic.  There are spaces where even a powerful warg cannot reach --  I thought my control of Viserion was absolute until the moment he slipped free.”  He shivered as he remembered that moment when he stood in front of the uncontrolled dragon, desperately trying to re-establish his hold and failing.  Viserion had drawn breath to flame.  That was how close he had come.  _The breaking, it happened in an instant_.  “And the bond … it is not one way.  I have Ghost to help me keep hold of myself … if I didn’t, I don’t know what would have happened to me.  Please.  Let me talk to Bran.”

She slumped back against the pillows.  “I hate it,” she said to Ghost.  “Sitting helpless while others control my fate.”

“May I ask,” Jon said to the bird.  “Why did you refuse Willas?  He did not seem to be an unkind man.  Was it that you didn’t love him?  Did you hope --”

“No,” she said.  “No, it wasn’t that.  I suppose I should have taken his offer.  I nearly did.”  She rubbed her hand over her eyes.  “I would have been the Lady of Highgarden, and the Tyrells protect their own.”  She sounded tired and resigned.  “And Willas himself … perhaps we could have built a foundation of affection.  He would have been fond of me.  Just as he is fond of Myranda.  And his children, and his siblings, and his servants and smallfolk, and the horses he breeds and the dogs in his kennels.  And perhaps there would have come a time when I did something he didn’t like.  And then--.”

“He didn’t seem an unkind man,” Jon said, but he could feel the hollowness even as he said it.  He shook his head.  “But I spent half an hour with him.  What can I say.  I know that I don’t understand what it is like for you.”  He shook his head, and gave a rueful laugh.  “When I was a boy, I had such fears of never having a place in the world.  I thought that if father – Ned Stark – died, your mother would have me out the door that same day.  It wasn’t just your mother’s love I envied all of you born Starks.  It was that certainty of always having a place.  I never thought that place might be a trap.”

It was a strange thought, to look at Dragonstone and Summerhall, the first and last of the Targaryen palaces, and to think that.  How many of his ancestors had found their heritage to be a prison?    

“Thank you for not agreeing to any of Willas’ proposals,” Sansa whispered.  She touched her belly.  “Those Tyrells with their schemes and ambitions.  They just never stop.  I could not bear it if Aelinor was born already promised …”

Ghost pricked up his ears. 

“Aelinor?”  Jon asked.

The bird landed back on a ruined wall.  It fluffed its feathers, managing to look uncertain. 

“I had to think of names,” said Sansa.  “I thought of Stark names, but … Aelinor is traditional enough, but it does not carry the weight of all that history.  I would like her to be able to have a fresh page there, at least.”  Her mouth turned down.  “She will be born with a lineage greater than even mine.  I would like her to have that freedom, at least.”

“And the boy?  Do you know that yet?”

“He will have to be Targayen, for the sake of his claim.  I thought of Aenar, or Jaeherys, or Daemon …  But I hated all of them.  But then I thought … it is going to sound foolish, but … I thought maybe …” she bit her lip.  “ … Duncan.  There was Duncan the Tall, who took Aegon the Unlikely as his squire and showed him the realm, and Duncan the Small, who loved Jenny of Oldstones.  They made me thing that not all Targaryen history was cruel or grand.”  Then she shook her head.  “But the politics are all wrong.  Duncan the Tall was smallfolk, and not even a Targaryen by birth, and the Prince of Dragonflies gave up the throne to wed a commoner.  So I can’t--”

“I think Duncan is a wonderful name, Sansa,” Jon said.  “Maybe other people will love it for the same reasons you do.  And I think that you should have a name for your son that you love.”

She smiled, and scratched Ghost’s ears, nice and hard, the way he liked it.  The wolf leaned into it, his butt wiggling with pleasure. 

Jon slapped a mosquito, and was about to curse.  The bird gave him a beady-eyed look.  “It hurts,” he groused.  “The one good thing about the winter was no mosquitos.” 

She laughed.  It was an old joke from their childhood.  If there was a mosquito within leagues, it would find Jon, bite him, and he would have a huge welt within an hour.  The true born Stark children had thought it was funny, at least.  None of them were bothered by mosquitoes in the least.  Jon hadn’t found the humour in it.

“You should go back.” Sansa said.  “It is getting late.”  She ruffled Ghost’s fur again. 

For all the weight of the day’s events, Jon found himself stepping lightly as he made his way out of the tower and into the ruins of the great hall.  The sky overhead was deep blue, and a single bright star shone near the gibbous moon.  The hall was silent. 

The first warning he has was Sansa’s hand tightening on Ghost’s fur.  “Jon!” she said.

“Jon,” came the sound of his name to his own ears.  This voice was mocking and bitter.

Jon spun, his hand going to Dark Sister’s hilt.  “Aegon.”

Broad circular steps lead down from what had once been the entry way.  Aegon’s pace was leisurely as he walked down them.  The fine leather of his boots was near silent on the moss-covered stones.  In the near-darkness, there was a faint shine to his arms.  He was wearing chain mail under a surcoat emblazoned with the three headed dragon of House Targaryen.  There was a sword at his hip, a jewel at the pommel that was near black in the moonlight.

Jon felt his heart drop. He was still entangled in Ghost’s mind, and he struggled to quiet that bond so he could focus.  Sansa’s fingers were digging into the direwolf’s shoulder, and the pain kept the link strong.  In Summerhall, he could hear the fluttering of wings nearby. 

“Jon, be careful!” Sansa said.  Her eyes were wide, and her free hand pressed over her mouth.  Ghost whined. 

Thankfully, Jon had been paranoid enough to come armed.  He gave a moment’s thanks to Roderick Cassel.  _A man with a long sword will always have an advantage in reach over a man with a short sword.  But a short sword is better than nothing in case of a sudden attack, and a hell of a lot easier to carry around with you._ For a moment he looked towards the gap where the door had been, but Aegon was between him and the only way out.  _Damn._

“Well met, Aegon,” he called out.  He kept his voice calm, as much to reassure Sansa as in any hopes of quelling the situation with Aegon.  He had come prepared for a fight.  Jon reached out his mind, but Viserion was asleep in a valley leagues away.  Rhaegal was not far away.  There would be no dragons involved tonight.

 _I can’t kill him until after the wedding,_ Jon thought.  _And he knows that._   For all his faults Aegon was not stupid. _Of course, the same doesn’t apply to me.  This is bad._ He had seen Aegon in the training yard, and the man was an able fighter. 

But his fears were not only physical. 

In the months since he confronted Aegon in his chambers, since he had learned the truth, he had managed to avoid being in the man’s presence other than in company.  It had been easier that way, to hide behind etiquette in public and behind hate when alone.  But now they were here, face to face, and Jon could no longer avoid the truth.

 _My brother_.    There were a dozen tells, when a man knew to look.  Aegon’s build – taller than Jon, but that same lean frame.  The tilt of his head.  The set of his eyes.  Those moments of scathing wit.  Jon knew full well that he had become dull and morose, but there had been times he had remembered the sharp tongue of that boy that had joined the Night’s Watch, and he had felt a pang of sympathy for Ser Allister Thorne.  

_My brother._

Jon stood and waited, as Aegon approached across the ruins of the Targaryen palace.

“I’ve always loved Summerhall,” Aegon said.  “Our father did, too.  He used to come here and camp alone under the stars, with only his harp.”  A pile of stones from the fallen roof lay in front of him.  Aegon jumped to the top in two easy strides.  He stood there, the moon shining on his silver-blond hair, looking down on Jon.  “I was his son, true born to the Queen of Westeros, Elia Martell.”

Jon half-turned away.  “You are.  I have never denied it.”

“You have denied it from the moment we met.  You never treated me like the kin of your body.  Like your superior, born first, born true.  I’m not the child of lust and betrayal, the son of vows broken.”

Through Ghost’s eyes, Jon saw Sansa’s hand tighten on her belly.  The bird called, and it was like a scream in the air. 

“What are you looking for here, Aegon?”  Jon kept his voice even, and his hands in plain sight.  “I was going to walk back to camp.  We can go together.  Maybe talk.”

Aegon’s face went calm in the moonlight.  He leapt down from the rocks and moved forward.  “Talk about what, brother?  My crown?  Our dragons?  The women in our lives?” 

Jon mentally calculated his brother’s reach, and the length of Blackfyre.  Aegon was approaching sword-thrust distance.  Then he was inside it.  He made no aggressive gesture.

“Sansa said she was well in her last letter,” Jon said.  “The babe is growing strong.”

Aegon paused, and looked away.  Then he looked back at Jon, and his face was hard again.   “And when shall the two of you wed?” he asked.  “Will you do it over my body, or shall you wait a moon out of respect before you take my wife and my crown?”  His mouth twisted.  “I’m not such a fool as you think, I know what you plan.”

“I have never wanted anything that was yours,” Jon said. 

“Even Daenerys?  She was meant to be mine.”

Jon drew breath through gritted teeth.  _No.  You are not going there._

Apparently Aegon was.

 “She was meant to be my Queen.”  Aegon’s response came quickly, the words pat, like something he had said a hundred times.  “We were the last true Targaryens, we would have restored the dynasty, our dragons—“

“Oh, listen to yourself.” Jon interrupted.  “Dany couldn’t even have children, she could have never given you heirs.  And she was no perfect Targaryen Queen – you barely knew her.  Whatever you’ve built her up as in your mind, she wasn’t.”  Then he stopped himself.  _Don’t be a fool, Jon, he’s trying to get a rise out of you._

_If only he wasn’t so damnably good at it._

_You barely knew her._   His own words echoed in his ears.  _I knew Daenerys.  I loved her,_ he told himself.   But he tried to picture her face, remember her smile. 

He failed. 

_What I felt for her was as close to love as I have ever known for a woman.  Or so I told myself.  What was she to me?  Fire.  Life.  A shelter.  All the things I had been denied from boyhood.  She was my lover, my friend, my warmth in the darkness.  She was hope when hope was lost.  My light in the darkness._

_She was … an escape._

_No.  I loved her.  No._

“Well, you provided me with an excellent substitute.  Probably Daenerys’s superior in connections, in political instincts, and if what you say is true, in fertility.” 

Jon opened and closed the fingers of his sword hand. 

“Please don’t, Jon,” Sansa whispered into Ghost’s ear.  “Not before the wedding.”  She ran her fingers through Ghost’s fur.  

“What’s done is done,” Jon said.  He forced his sword-hand to relax.  “You hold the throne, you will have your Queen.  Surely that is –“

 “—what, enough?”  Aegon mocked.  “I should be content?  I was meant to be the Prince That Was Promised!  From the time I was a babe, I was told that I had to live up to that destiny.  I had to be perfect in everything I did.  I was to be the perfect prince, me!  And you stole that from me.”

Jon felt his jaw drop.  “You envy me … the battle at the Wall?” he asked in disbelief.  “That responsibility?  Knowing that armies of the dead were coming for us, and all I had were thieves and rapers to fight them with?”

“I would have done that, if I had known.  If I had been there in time!  They told me I was meant to be king, but they were wrong.  It was my destiny to fight the Great Evil, and you stole that from me.”

That fool Jon Connington—“ Jon started.

And then Aegon was on him.  Blackfyre was in his hands.  He half-sworded, one hand gripping the blade so he could bash with it like a club. 

Jon fell backwards in front of the blow.  He went onto his knees.  In that precious second, he drew Dark Sister.

Blackfyre came down and Dark Sister met it.  The clash of Valyrian steel rang like a bell.

Aegon came at Jon again, and this time he was able to pivot, knock Aegon past him, scramble to his feet.  Then Aegon was on him again, slashing with Blackfyre.  He countered desperately.  Aegon’s defences were strong, and worse, he dared not risk injuring his brother. 

Without mail or a heavy sword, Jon was lighter on his feet.  It was his only advantage.  He parried, and retreated, step by step.  Every instinct was screaming at him to go for the kill.  He fought himself at the same time as he fought Aegon.

He dodged a down-blow. 

Sansa and the bird screamed as one.

Jon looked down, and saw that his sleeve was red _.  A flesh-wound._  He was sure.  He wouldn’t let himself think other.

Jon, kill him!  It isn’t worth your life!”  Sansa’s shriek into Ghost’s ear made his head ring.  Through the shock, Jon countered another blow and stepped back. 

There was stone against his boot-heel, and nowhere further to retreat.  Jon parried and counterthrust.  Aegon’s block forced Blackfyre to slide down Dark Sister, and then Jon had the blade caught against his hilt.  They struggled for a moment, Aegon’s greater weight against Jon’s.  He felt himself being pushed down against the pile of stone.  There was moss.  It was slick.  He slid, and the locked blades moved inexorably towards him. 

Aegon gasped.  His face distorted in triumph. 

It was too late for Jon to go for the kill.  He would have, in that moment, if he could.  But there was no strength to spare for anything except that desperate effort to keep the steel from his flesh.

He was losing.

Then there was a flurry of wings.  Jon felt a blow to the side of his head, but he wasn’t the primary target.  Aegon flinched as the bird attacked his face. The pressure of Blackfyre against Dark Sister lessened. 

Jon lashed out, kicking at Aegon’s knee, and as his brother stumbled, Jon bashed him in the face with the flat of the blade.  Aegon went down.  Jon kicked him again, in the chest rather than the recently-injured gut.  He spun Dark Sister into position for a killing blow. 

It struck something soft in the air, something that shouldn’t have been there, that had never been part of his training.  There wasn’t a sound.  Then there was a small, soft thud as a tiny body hit the ground. 

Jon stared at the small blue bird on the ground.  Then at Dark Sister.  Blood streaked down the blade. 

Aegon stared up at the sky, one hand on his gut, the other on his face.  Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.  In Dragonstone, Sansa was weeping into Ghost’s fur.  The wolf nuzzled her.  “I’m all right,” she said.  “I’m all right.”

Blackfyre was by Aegon’s arm.  Jon kicked it clear.  He stood over his brother, sword in his hand.

Then he stepped back, allowing Aegon to scramble to his feet. 

“I am sorry,” Jon said.  “You are not a good man, and you do not deserve it.  But I am sorry that I did not come earlier.  For all our sakes.”  He bowed his head. "I am sorry that I did not help you with the burdens of ruling.  For the sake of the realm.  I surrendered my responsibility.  I had no right.  I am sorry."

Aegon stared at him, wild-eyed.  “What … that’s all?” he said, disbelief clear in his voice.

“No.  Of course it will not be all.  Tomorrow you will annul your marriage to Arianne Martell, a good woman and a good Queen that Westeros , and we will prepare to bring the court back to King’s Landing.  In a fortnight, I will give Sansa to you in the Great Sept of Baelor and you will be wed in a ceremony that no man can question.”  Jon stopped, feeling the weight of fatigue, of a lifetime of battling.  All that destruction.  All that death.  He looked around the ruins of Summerhall, and saw nothing but darkness.   “When that is done,” Jon added.  “You will know where to find me.”

He walked away, leaving Aegon in the ruins. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Tommyginger who suggested Duncan's name. Brilliant idea.


	39. The Silver Wedding

Sansa: 

The morning of her wedding dawned with fire across the sky.

Her party had spent the last days before the wedding at Castle Kirkland.  It was a small keep built on a windswept rocky island an hour’s sail from King’s Landing.  Half the royal fleet was moored about the tiny castle, ready to escort their new Queen to the capital.

Sansa had been sleepless most of the night.  When the window of her chamber began to shade from black to grey, she had risen from her bed.  Now she stood on the parapets, listening to the creak of ships moving with the swell.  The smell of salt air was in her nose.  Puffy clouds scattered across the sky.  As the light grew stronger, they glowed with red hues against the grey.

She kept herself in her body, enjoying the feeling of air moving through her hair and the stone under her fingers.  One of the babes kicked, and she felt the other stir in response.  Then they quieted.  She smiled.  The one on the left always seemed to move more and hit harder than the other.  She wondered which it was. 

“Good morning.”  Ermensande’s voice was still drowsy, and her eyes were heavy.  Half her hair stood out from her head in a wild tangle.  She had shared Sansa’s bed the previous night, snoring the entire time while Sansa had lain and stared at the wall.

“I’m sorry if I woke you,” Sansa said.  She ran her fingers through Ermensande’s hair.  How did it get like that?  It had been brushed before bed, she knew that for a fact.  “You need your sleep.  We have a big day ahead.”

Sansa was just thankful that she had taken the precaution of vetting the girl’s gown well in advance to ensure something both tasteful and appropriate to her age.  Her own gown had been finished only a few days ago.  It was waiting for her in the cabin of the royal flagship. 

_Hair to be done here, dressing on the ship.  Jon to greet me at the docks and ride through the streets with me.  Attendants to throw silver coins to the crowd.  Aegon will be at the Great Sept. The High Septon will publicly forgive us our sins on the steps, bring us inside, and wed us before the alters of the Mother and the Father.  Again.  I will be crowned Queen.  We will ride together in procession to the red keep.  More coins to be thrown, and barrels of wine to be opened in every square for the townsfolk.  There will be minstrels throughout the city encouraging people to dance and be merry. The wedding feast will be held in the gardens, under canvas painted with snowflakes and lilies in my honour.  Then we will be bedded together, Aegon and I, in a dignified ceremony witnessed by the highest lords of Westeros._

_Everything must be perfect, down to the smallest detail of the rituals.  There is no room for error._    She reached into a fold in her skirts and touched the mockingbird pin she had hidden there. 

“Sansa?”  Ermensande said.  She was looking out to sea.  Her lip caught between her teeth.

“Yes?”

“Please don’t marry Aegon.” 

Sansa pulled her fingers free of Ermensande’s hair, and ran them through her own locks from temples to ends. Then she did it again.

Ermensande looked at Sansa’s face, and burst into tears.   “I’m sorry,” she blubbered.  “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.  I just … I just … It isn’t too late.  Surely it isn’t.  It is never too late.  Robin and Rickon and Jon, they would help you.  Just like Joram did.  People would help you if only you would ask them to.”

Sansa drew breath, let it out, forcing herself to remain calm.  _Courtesy is a lady’s armour._   “Ermensande, I ask you not to question my choices.  Particularly not on this day.”

“But –“

“No.”  Sansa levered herself around (she would once have whirled), and raised her hand in caution.  “You are of noble birth, Ermensande Hayford, and you will have to face what I have, in your own way, in your own time.”

Ermensande just looked at her, tears running down her cheeks.  Sansa wiped them away with her sleeve. 

“Come,” she said.  “Dry your eyes.”

And they left the glorious sunrise and freedom of the air behind, and Sansa called for the maids to prepare them for the wedding.

*** 

Jon: 

The royal fleet came into the harbour with flags and bunting flying.  It felt like half of the Crownlands had packed into Kings Landing to watch this momentous event: a royal wedding bound to be celebrated in song for years.  He had heard that there was much curiosity, too, about the new Queen-to-be, whom few had seen since the scandal had broken. 

Now, standing at the docks while the flagship was made fast, Jon could hear the whispers, feel the curiosity in the air.  He shifted in his uncomfortable doublet.  Suddenly the onlookers fell silent. 

Sansa stood at the head of the ramp. 

Her dress was ivory samite silk and silk tulle.  The fabric shone with a soft radiance that warmed her pale skin and complimented her auburn hair.  It clung to her torso, emphasizing her narrow shoulders and ribcage, clinging to the gentle curve of her abdomen.  The skirts and sleeves flared out into fold and folds of fabric as soft and gentle as gossamer.  Her hair was pulled back from her face, but it cascaded behind her with silver stars nestled in the cascading locks.  She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen:  the ice-maiden of Winterfell at the height of her beauty, as radiant as the sun. 

Robert Arryn helped her down the ramp.  Jon waited at the base.  He had to blink back tears as he watched her walk down, taking such care of skirts and train.  Sansa was smiling, but as she drew closer he could see that her eyes were hard with resolution.

“You look beautiful,” he told her. 

She nodded thanks. 

The cloak was over his arm.  He shook it out, making sure the crowd could admire the pearls and fur that made up the grey Stark direwolf.  As gently as he could, he settled it around her shoulder.  Her shoulders seemed too slender to bear the weight of all that fabric of gown, train, and cloak, but she stood straight and tall.

Jon fastened the cloak.  On impulse, he kissed her cheek.  “Your father and mother – they would be proud of you,” he said. 

Her eyes widened.  “Thank you, Jon,” she whispered. 

Rickon and Lyanna came down the gangway, followed by Robert Arryn and the rest of the party.  Jon swallowed hard at the sight of his younger brother.  Rickon was just the age Robb had been when they had said goodbye.  He remembered the snowflakes melting in Robb’s hair.  But where Robb’s face had been gentle, Rickon’s expression was a mirror of Sansa’s.  Fury was written in every line of his body. 

“Don’t worry,” said Sansa.  “Sweetrobin will be at Rickon’s elbow all day, ready to trip him up or snap ‘language’ as needed. 

They made a strange contrast, the two cousins.  Robert was all velvet, brocade, and a small amount of tasteful lace, while Rickon’s attire might pass at a wedding, but Jon could not help but think it would be equally suit as Stark formal wear for beheading someone, scooping their brains out, and wearing their skull as a hat.  There was leather, fur, and plentiful metal detailing.  At Rickon’s side, Lyanna Mormont was elegent in a simple dark green dress of northern styling.  Bringing up the rear was what at eye level appeared to be a pair of mating golden birds, but on further inspection turned out to be a head-dress of gilded feathers with Ermensand Hayford underneath it. 

Jon helped Sansa to the palfrey that had been prepared for her.  The southern-style side saddle looked precarious to his eyes.  It was little more than a padded chair facing side-ways on the horse’s back.  A page stood ready with the reigns.  Sansa let herself be lifted into the saddle without complaint, though, so Jon mounted himself.  When the procession was ready, they set off for the Sept. 

The streets were packed.  As they rode by, there were cheers and cries of “Lady Stark” and “The White Dragon.”  Many of the crowd wore northern attire.  Jon wondered if Tall Tom was watching.  But there were also some silent faces, and there was a marked lack of anyone wearing Dornish attire.  _Not everyone is happy with this wedding,_ Jon thought.  But Sansa was smiling and waving to the crowd.  The stars in her hair flashed in the sun. Jon could see some cold faces warming as she passed.  Behind them, men were giving something away, and he could hear her name, and more cheers.  He forced himself to follow her lead and wave and smile too. 

Then the square in the Great Sept opened in front of them.  There was a crowd here, too, but this one was better dressed.  Trumpets sounded, and the crowd parted as Jon and Sansa rode at the head of the procession. 

Aegon waited at the bottom of the stairs to the Sept.  High nobles, courtiers, and members of the small council surrounded him.  The Kingsguard formed a white wall. Elia Sand stood among them. Her saffron coloured robe was the only Dornish attire in the party.   Looking down from his horse, Jon caught Willas’ eye.  The Tyrell Lord dipped his head and gave Jon a small, enigmatic smile. 

At the top of the stairs, in front of the great doors, stood the High Septon.  In front of him were two cushions.  Jon had been told that it was for the King and his new Queen to kneel to confess their sin and receive forgiveness from the Faith.  He hoped that Robert Arryn would have good control on Rickon during that part of the ceremony. 

Far above, Rhaegal perched on the dome of the Sept.  Viserion had taken position on a wall on the opposite side of the square. 

Sansa was as pale as a marble statute as they lifted her down from the horse.  She looked around at the crowd, at the great statute of Baelor in the centre of the square, then at the steps.  There was a moment of hesitation.  Then she looked to Jon.

He extended his hand to her, and together they walked to meet the King.

Aegon’s wedding doublet was Targaryen black but worked with so much silver thread that one could barely see the fabric.  With his silver hair and violet eyes, he looked like a prince from one of Old Nan’s stories.  The corner of his lip curled into a smirk as Jon and Sansa approached. 

“Bad manners to kick him in the nuts?” Jon murmured to Sansa.  He was rewarded with a hint of a smile. 

“It is frowned upon in polite circles,” she noted.  “But views do vary.”

They were only a few feet from Aegon when the amusement vanished from his brother’s face. 

 _“What in hell’s name?”_ he breathed, staring behind them.  There were murmurs of shock and astonishment from the gathered crowd.  One woman screamed. 

“Why brother,” Jon couldn’t keep the mockery out of his voice.  “Surely you recall the famous Stark direwolves?”

Ghost and Shaggydog took up position on either side of them, black and white, and both brushed until their fur shone. They looked none the less ferocious for that.  Shaggydog’s muzzle pulled back to reveal teeth as long as a man’s finger.  A deep growl rumbled in his chest. 

Aegon paled. 

Above, Rhaegal roared. 

Sansa put a hand on the wolf’s shoulder and murmured to him.  With a last glare at Aegon, Shaggydog turned his back and made his way to Rickon’s side. 

They had to wait for the other riders to dismount.  There was a period of chaos; the horses appeared to dislike the presence of the wolves and the dragons.  Myranda Tyrell as the highest ranked woman present ushered Sansa the foot of the steps and fussed over the drape of her gown. 

Jon made sure that Rickon and Shaggydog were well away from Aegon.  He himself remained by his brother’s side. 

“So you are really going to give her away to me,” Aegon commented to him.  “I thought you had some great plan to prevent it.  Very pragmatic for the great hero.”

“How is your face?” Jon asked pointedly.  “And your gut, how is that?  Healed up?”

“Oh, yes.” Aegon said.  He looked thoughtful.  “A bit of a pity.  I’m going to miss people’s reactions.”

“Wait, what?  What have you been telling them?”

“Oh, nothing.  I was certainly not telling anyone that you stabbed me.  In fact, I was emphatically denying that you stabbed me.  And saying I didn’t want to talk about it, because questions put me in a difficult position.  And then would I clutch at the injury, and look pained.”  Aegon looked thoughtful.  “I was having to work a bit harder than usual, with Margaery at Dragonstone.  Usually I just tell her, and if it isn’t a Tyrell family secret, when you’ve told Margaery, you’ve told everyone.”

“*I* stabbed you?”

“No, no—“

“Yeah, I get it.  I was a man of the Night’s Watch.  I understand how gossip works; the Watch was all about gossip. Which contributed to my murder.” Jon scowled.  “And for the record, I am personally offended that anyone believes that I would attempt to stab you and fail.  By all the gods, I’m the hero of the dawn.  I killed the Night’s King.”  Jon sighed.  _Of course they believe it._   “So why, exactly, are you implying that I stabbed you?” 

Aegon beamed. 

“You are suggesting that I am sexually jealous of you and Sansa, aren’t you.  By all the gods, you are a shit heap of a human being.”

“Thank you.”

Robter Storm approached.  “Your Grace, I think we are ready for you.”  He held out his arm to direct Aegon to join Sansa at the foot of the stairs.

There was a soft whistle and an even softer thunk of impact. 

 _Crossbow_ , identified Jon’s mind.  _Hitting flesh._  

_Sansa._

_No._

He crossed the steps in a heartbeat, or so it felt.  In a panic, he grasped her arms.  Her blue eyes were wide with shock.  There was no blood.  The white silk was clean.  Jon gasped in relief.

“Seven Hells,” someone said.  “The king.”

Aegon was on the ground.  He doublet was soaked in blood.  A crossbow bolt protruded from his upper chest. 

Jon’s arms tightened on Sansa, but he felt the sudden calm of a crisis. He let go, and stepped back. “Go into the Sept,” he told her.  “That is the safest place.”

“But, what—“

“Sansa, please.” 

She stared at him, then she nodded.  With Robert and Lyanna helping her, she hurried up the stairs.   

The Grandmaester was already by Aegon’s side.  His breath came in short gasps.  His skin was grey.  “Jon,” he said.  Tears streaked down from the corners of his eyes as he stared up into the sky.   “Oh gods, Jon, I need you.  It hurts.  Jon.”

There was a flap of wings, and Rhaegal landed heavily mere feet away.  He crooned, a sound like a crying baby, and extended his head to Aegon.  Aegon put a hand on the dragon’s muzzle. 

“Jon,” Aegon said, and coughed blood.

“I’m here.”  

The Grandmaester had his hands in the wound, working feverishly to stem the bleeding. 

“Not you,” Aegon said.  He fought for breath.  “I want … I want Jon.” 

And then the blood stopped.  Aegon went still.  His eyes were still open, but sightless.  Empty. 

Rhaegal screamed.

Jon stared in disbelief, then looked to the Grandmaester.  The man shook his head. 

“The King is dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is interested, I've put pictures of the outfits that inspired the wedding clothes up on my tumblr: http://bluecichlid.tumblr.com/post/138267246919/show-chapter-archive
> 
> Note, April 20, 2016: I've been asked if the story is abandoned. That is definitely not the case, but I've been dealing with a lot of emotionally draining and stressful real life stuff, and in the circumstances I've found it difficult to work on Ties, which is a pretty dark story at times. I am hoping to get back to it soon. Thanks to all my readers for their interest and patience.


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who is still with me, I am so sorry about the long wait for updates. RL has overwhelmed me the past eight months, but I'm getting back to some sort of equilibrium, and I'm writing again. I won't make any promises re the writing from here, but I am in the endgame of the story now and I am hoping to be done soon. Thanks to everyone for your patience.

_ This is not happening.  After everything that has happened.  Aegon gets shot on the Sept steps?  No.  This is not real.   _

_ Sept steps.  There’s a pun there.  Have they been swept?  Are they well kept?  Is the sweeper deft?  No, that doesn’t rhyme.   _

_ Did he work from the left? _

_ I must not laugh.  That would not be the thing to do.  People would see, they would think I am a fool, or that I have gone as mad as Cersei Lannister.  _

“Sansa, we need to go inside.”  Ermensande was pale, her eyes wide with fear.  

With that sight, the giddiness drained away from Sansa.

Aegon was gasping for breath in the puddle of blood.  She watched, helpless, as he reached out and touched the muzzle of his dragon.  He said something in Jon’s ear.  And then he stopped.  His eyes were staring up at the sky, unseeing.

“The King is dead,” the Grandmaester said.  

The word spread from person to person, until the whole square was abuzz.  But silence travelled in its wake.  It was as if each person who heard, noble and commoner alike, was soon struck motionless. Voiceless.  Afraid.  

_How does it feel?_ Sansa wanted to ask them _.  How does it feel to be pawns, helpless while your fate is decided?  Don’t care for it so much, do you?  Maybe I’ll write a bawdy song about you all.   Won’t that be fun?_ She shivered. _I have grown cold -- how did that happen?  I don’t want to see anyone afraid.  I never wanted that._

Rhaegal was half on the stone and half in the air – his wings were unfurled, his claws touching the ground.  There was a madness in his eyes.  Sansa felt her breath catch at the power contained in the beast.  Viserion had his wings spread, ready to take to the air.

_ This moment is ripe with power – in me, in the dragons, in Jon, in the Lords Paramount, in the common people, in the Faith.  The future hangs like a pendulum.  _

Jon was staring at his brother, aghast.  His hand was stretched out as if to take the last few moments back.  

_ There is nothing as lost as the past, Jon.  A few heartbeats, a span of years.  All the same.  You can never, ever, go back and fix things.  There is only forward.  _

Jon looked up, and his eyes met hers.  His face was anguished.  He shifted his weight, as if to take a step towards her.  

_ He looks so much like Father.   _ Sansa wished she could collapse into his arms and weep at all her frustration and fear.  She wanted to feel his strength, the comfort of his body.   _ She wished she could be cared for. She wished she could be weak. _

Rhaegal roared.  There were screams from the crowd: men, women, and the high pitched voices of children.  Jon’s head snapped around to look at the people.  

And in that moment, Sansa knew that she could never hold him.  Jon loved her, she did not doubt that.  He regretted what he had done.  He would do what he could to help her.  But when the hard choices came, and they would come, she knew that … she could not depend on him.  She looked out over the sea of people, all the faces watching, and knew that at the end, he would always chose what he thought was the greater good.

_ I cannot trust Jon to choose me.  I cannot trust him to choose my children.   _

“Stand back,” Willas Tyrell’s voice rang through the square.  “Give the King space.”  His face was calm: too calm.  There was no surprise in his eyes.  For a moment his eyes met Sansa’s, and there was regret.  Then he looked away.

_ Bastard.  You bastard.   _ A wave of fury washed over her, at herself no less than at Willas.   _ I underestimated the Tyrell.  He wanted Jon on the throne.  I should have seen it.  Stupid girl.  Stupid, stupid little girl.   _

And driven by that rage, not caring what she unleashed, she looked to Rhaegal and drew on all that dark power that had followed her from Harrenhal, took a breath, and cast out to take control of the dragon’s mind.

She almost had it.  Her natural ability, the experience she had gained over these last months, the power that was hers to draw on … for a heartbeat it was enough, and she and Rhaegal thought as one.  If she hadn’t lost Lady so early, if her control had been that of her siblings, so secure in their bonds, she would have had it.  But Rhaegal was panicked, and her hold waxed and waned.  

Her tenuous hold on the dragon’s mind slipped free.  The shock of it was like being hit with a mailed fist.  She was down, on her knees, not even knowing how she got there.  She gasped for breath, her body numb, a roaring in her ears.  Her body spasmed.  Somewhere, distantly, Sweetrobin was speaking, Ermensande was crying, Shaggydog pressed close.  There was a roaring in her ears.  

It was like part of her stepped out of her body at that moment, left behind the shaking girl with the swollen belly encased in a mass of silk like a butterfly winging free of a cocoon.  Everything stopped.  The people were frozen, like a garden of statutes.  

Sansa climbed to her feet, maneuvering her thickened waist and masses of skirts until she was standing at the head of the stairs.  Everything was silent, motionless.   _ No, wait.  _  Her eyes were drawn to the crumpled figure lying between Jon and Rhaegal.   There was someone else standing there.  Tall, strong, face creased in confusion. Aegon looked to his corpse, his dragon, his brother.  Then he looked up at her.  

_ No.  You’re dead.   _ Her heart was in her throat.   _ You are dead.  Dead. _

And then a woman’s hand reached from behind and placed itself on his shoulder.  Aegon stopped, turned.

And came face to face with his daughter.

Sansa had seen Aelinor for a heartbeat in the Godswood, and no more.  Now, for their first time, she saw her daughter clearly.  

There was little of Duncan’s gentleness to Aelinor.  She was cold and hard, but there was a strength to her.  The hand she had used was her left, her right held a drawn sword.  She carries Dark Sister, Sansa thought, as she saw the smoky darkness of the Valerian steel.  And it was like Aelinor was a blade herself: tall and slender and graceful.  She was tall for a woman, maybe even taller than Sansa herself. Her silver hair was woven into a crown of braids on her head. She wore Stark colours -- White and grey, with a skirt slit for riding like some of the far northern clans used.  

_ She looks like a Queen.   _

Aegon hesitated, wavered, and then faded away like morning mist.  Aelinor watched him vanish.  Everyone else stayed frozen, even the dragons.  She turned, her face as calm as if she had just watched a game of cyvass, and walked up the stairs towards her mother.  She reached the step below Sansa’s, and paused.  Then she bowed her head in reverence.  

“Mother.  My Queen.”

“You do not need to bow to me, Aelinor.”

She laughed.  “Allow me this.  I never have, to anyone else.”  There was a wonder in Aelinor’s eyes, and a darkness.  “We knew so little about this time, Duncan and I.  Only the barest hints of what happened … We wanted to know.  Now I am not so sure …”  

“Are you real?”

She shrugged.  “Duncan goes through his books and talks about possible futures, from your point of view.   He talks a great deal, which is Duncan’s way of saying he doesn’t have the slightest idea.  And if he doesn’t know, likely nobody does.”

Aelinor broke off.  Her eyes narrowed and her jaw tightened as she followed Sansa’s disapproving gaze to her split skirt.  “I have crossed time and space against all the laws of nature to speak to you,” she said, from between gritted teeth.  

“I do understand that,” Sansa said.   _ Not the time for that war to start.  Yet.  _  But she wanted to laugh, too.  _  I love you, Aelinor.  _  “You and your brother, can you see any time?  Go anywhere?”  

“No.”  Aelinor shook her head.  “I can see the past through the weirwords, as Uncle Bran does.  Duncan’s gifts are different.  But neither of us can enter the past like this, ordinarily.”

Sansa blinked.  

“You didn’t know.”  Surprise crossed Aelinor’s face.  “Did you think it was only the future of House Targaryen at stake?  I am a Stark of Winterfell.” She said it like it was the most natural, obvious thing in the world, with eight thousand years of pride in her voice.  She shook her head.  “But this time is different.” She glanced towards the curve of Sansa’s belly.  “Duncan and I are here, in between being and not.  The forces surrounding us, surrounding you … They give us a point of entry.  A door is open.  When we are born, that door will close.”  

Sansa shivered, feeling suddenly cold.  “Aelinor, your father, I saw him.  But he is dead, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” said Aelinor.  “He is dead.”  Her hand clasped the hilt of Dark Sister.  “And he is here.  His part in this is not finished.”   Her head turned.  “Things are moving … I cannot hold … Mother …”

“Aelinor …”  

She was fading, melting away like the snow in the spring.

“Mother … I am afraid.”

And then Aelinor was gone, and the world was moving around Sansa again.  Rhaegal was roaring, people were screaming, Sweetrobin was pulling at Sansa’s sleeve.  

Jon was looking at her, and she could see the relief plain in his eyes.  But there was resolve there, too.   _ He knows what I tried to do, and he knows that I failed.   _ Jon’s face was hard with resolve.   _ Was this the face of the commander of the Battle at the Wall?  _  Jon does not intend to let Rhaegal hurt the common people.  

_ I don’t want that to happen, either.   _

_ I never wanted to hurt anyone.   _

Sansa let them pull her up and lead her into the safety of the sept.  

The place was packed, the air dense with the smell of sweat and fear.  A hush fell over the crowd at the sight of her, and they parted so that she could pass.   _ I am the picture of the grieving widow,  _ she thought, and stifled a laugh. _  These people believe Aegon and I loved each other.  They must not see differently. _  The two direwolves paced in front of her.  Rickon had his arm around her shoulder, and Sweetrobin was by her side. She was only vaguely aware of where they were walking to.  Most of her mind was still outside in the square.

Jon stood before Rhaegal.  Viserion was behind him.  Sansa could feel him reach out for control of the dragon’s mind.  It was hopeless.  He couldn’t hold Rheagal without losing control of Viserion.  The dragon turned away from him, and looked to the city full of people.

Jon’s gaze was drawn to a figure standing along at the bottom of the steps.  Elia Sand was pale, and she was shaking like a leaf.   _ The reality of a wild dragon is very different from the idea.  _  But she didn’t run.

Jon closed his eyes, swallowed, then opened them.  “Can you do it?” he called out to Elia, not looking away from Rhaegal.  

“I … I don’t know.  But,” Elia paused.  “I can try.”

Jon nodded.  His gaze ran over the people in the square, all those upturned faces.  “Then do it.”

Sansa opened her eyes.  She was sitting in a room with a great polished table inlaid with a seven-pointed star.  Someone had thrown their cape over her shoulders, and another lay across her lap.  A few members of the Most Devote hovered in their formal robes -- they seemed afraid to approach her too closely.  

There were two warm, hairy bodies pressed close to her on either side.  Ghost had his head in her lap, while Shaggydog’s huge muzzle rested on her stomach.  One of the babes kicked and the direwolf jumped.  He gave her belly a dirty look.   _ Aelinor _ , Sansa thought.  

“Sansa, are you all right?  We are here.”  Rickon’s voice cracked.

She let her eyes pool with tears, and she put a hand on her belly.  “There is so much … we don’t know what is happening … but I just can’t talk to people right now.  I can’t go out ...” she dashed away the tears from her eyes with her hand.  “I’m afraid.”

Ghost whined.  

“We can do it for you,” Sweetrobin said immediately.  “Tell us what you need.”  He put his hand on her shoulder.  A small hand nestled into hers. Sansa smiled at Ermensande.  Behind her, Rickon and Lyanna stood close together, and Shaggydog pressed his head against her side.  

Sansa blinked away her tears and smiled at them all.  “Thank you,” she said.  “Go find out what you can -- who could have done this?  Be careful, please.”  She took a breath.  “Ermensande, you have been at court the longest, and your house has ties to many of the lords of the Crownlands.  Speak to them on my behalf, and ask what they know.  Find out who has men in the city, and how many.  Lyanna, would you go with Ermensande and make sure she is safe?  I don’t want her to be alone right now.”  She looked at Ghost, and at Shaggydog.  “Take the wolves with you.”

Lyanna’s eyes met Sansa’s and a frown creased her brow, but after a moment she nodded agreement.  

“Rickon, I would have you send a message to Edmure in Winterfell.  Tell him what has happened, and tell him to be cautious.  The north should be safe, I hope, but who can know how far this conspiracy stretches?  It might be wise to ask for his authority to act in his name in the Riverlands -- we are better positioned to deal with trouble there than he is.”  

“Sweetrobin, I have a difficult job for you.”  His eyes lit up at that, and Sansa smiled.  “Find out what happened.  Who is behind this?  That is the most critical thing of all.  You will need to be careful and diplomatic.  Aegon’s death -- it was aimed at preventing our marriage.  It must have been.  So many people might have had motives.  I need to know who was involved.”

“You can rely on us.  Always,” Sweetrobin said.  He looked so noble, in his sky-blue and cream, his face guileless.  

_ I know.  And when you ask those questions, people will begin to think of who stood to gain.  _

It was cold when they were gone, without the warm bodies of the wolves.  Sansa put her elbows on the table, and buried her face in her hands.  The quieter twin -- Duncan -- moved in a little flutter, and then was still.  

“Lady Sansa?” 

She looked up to find one of the persons she would have least expected standing in front of her.  Robter Storm. 

He’d dressed up for the wedding, in a burgundy doublet, and looked surprisingly doubty.  In his hands he held a large sausage wrapped in pastry.  He held it out to her. 

“I thought that maybe you’d be hungry.”  

And she was, she suddenly realized.  She was ravenous.  She’d been full of nerves that morning, and had barely eaten more than a bite or two.  She took the sausage from him, and bit into it.  It was cold, but good -- greasy and meaty and salty.  She had to force herself to eat slowly.  Robert had brought her a cup of water, too, and she downed that in a few gulps.

“Renly always said that when someone has had a shock, they need the basics.  Eat, drink, stay warm.”  Robter coughed.  “He was good with this sort of stuff.  People.”  He took a breath.  “You and I, we got off to a bad start back on the Small Council.  I just wanted to say … I’m sorry.  You didn’t deserve any of this.”

Sansa looked at Robter.  “Jon is lucky to have a friend like you,” she said.   _ Jon’s good at making friends. _

“He’s a good man,” Rober said.  “He’s made his share of mistakes, but he wants to fix them.”  

“I know,” said Sansa.  She put the sausage down.  “We should summon the small council,” she said.  “There is so much to discuss.  And the great Lords who are here, too -- Can you send messengers to summon Lord Tyrell and Lord Lannister?  When Jon gets back, we will all need to meet to find a way forward.”  

Robter nodded.  

“Could you give the orders?  And then once that is done, can you wait for Jon at the Dragonpit?  We will need to speak to him as soon as he returns, and that is the most likely place.  And could you send Ser Corbray to me?”

“I will,” he promised.  

When he was gone, she ate the rest of the sausage roll slowly, methodically.  It was good.  The thought had been kind.  When she was finished, she looked up.  Lord Commander Corbray was standing there.  He was a good man, loyal to what he thought was his duty.  Slowly, carefully, she took a cloth from her sleeve and started to wipe the grease from her fingers.  

“Ser Corbray, am I your Queen?”   _ You were not outside the door, that night at Harrenhal.  I am grateful for that small mercy now.  I need you.   _

“You are.”

“Gather the men you know can be trusted,” she told him.  “When the council is gathered, lock the doors.  Don’t let anyone leave.  Tell them it is for their own safety.”  She took a breath, and continued wiping.   _ Clean hands.  I must always be sure that my hands are clean. _  “When Robter Storm is alone, seize him.  Take him to the dungeons.”

Corbray stared at her, stunned.

“Send messengers to the High Septon, the Commander of the Gold Cloaks, and to the minor lords who are loyal to the Crown.  I will give you a list.  The Grandmaester, too.”   _ He witnessed the marriage, the Citadel will have no choice but to support my claim. _  “Tell them that I am afraid …”   _ I must.  I have no choice.  Or I will be shunted aside, powerless.  Never.  I will never allow that. _  “Tell them that I am afraid that my brother murdered King Aegon.”

***

Jon and Elia had brought the dragons down onto a sea stack that jutted out from the waters of the bay.  Sansa watched them through the eyes of a gull soaring on a the sea air.  It had taken her an hour of searching through the minds of the seabirds to find them, but she had them now.  

Elia was on Rhaegal’s back, her robe tucked up around her legs for riding, her feet bare.  She slid to the ground, and Rhaegal nuzzled her.  Sansa could feel the bond between dragon and rider, nascent for now, not yet supported by the spells Tyrion had translated, but growing stronger by the minute.

Elia was ashen, and she looked very young.  Jon was speaking to her, talking about going to Dragonstone, perhaps to Bran in the far north.  It wasn’t a bad idea, Sansa thought.  Keep Elia and the dragon away from the politics of the court.  She was nodding.    

_ You cannot lock power away, Jon.  You tried that with yourself, and it didn’t work.  I tried it, too. _

_ I never wanted to play the Game.  But I intend to win. _

She had done it inadvertently before, but she knew the path.  Sansa slipped into Elia’s as easily as a needle piercing fabric.  For a moment, she saw through the girl’s eyes, felt her confusion and fear like it was Sansa’s own.  And then she poured all that dark power into Elia’s mind and felt her thoughts blow out like a candle in a sudden gust of wind. 

Rhaegal bent his head as the bond dissolved.  His mind was open, vulnerable.  He was calm now.  It was easy.  

Through other eyes, she saw Jon catch Elia as she fell, saw him stare into her face, her empty eyes.  His breath caught as he understood.  He eased her to the ground.  Sat frozen over her body for a long moment.  In that little space of quiet, the wind played with his hair.  Then he raised his eyes to Rhaegal.  

“Sansa,  _ what have you done?” _

 


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally put up to explain that I was changing my comments policy re a negativity that was getting me down. I don't want to delete it entirely as there are a lot of comments, so I've decided to turn lemons into lemonaid and make it into a place to put up my fancasts for the characters in this fic. This was originally on my tumblr blog. Hope you all enjoy!

Much as I love the actors from the show, they are not what I tend to see when I think about the characters (with a couple of exceptions). I'm not very tech savvy, but I will try to figure out how to put the pictures up here. 

The big three:

Jon Snow = Paul Mercurio from the movie Strictly Ballroom. He has this amazing intensity which is what I always envision for Jon. Also, as a dancer, he's very graceful and strong, which I also see as a very important part of Jon's character. And he broods well.

Aegon Targaryen = Travis Fimmel circa about 2003. Most people know him from Vikings, but he used to model underwear for Calvin Klein. Aegon needs to be very, very, very good looking. He also can seem very nice and approachable, which is also Aegon.

Sansa Stark = I don't have a single favourite, but I tend to think of old fashioned screen goddesses for the looks and the presence. I like Grace Kelly for the poise, but she's always a little too polished for a medieval noblewoman. Claudia Carindale has the cheekbones and the masses of hair. And I might think of a younger version of Nicole Kidman in the movie the Others -- fabulous skin, crazy eyes, and a shotgun. :)

Here's the link to the pictures of these three that I put up on my blog: http://bluecichlid.tumblr.com/post/151451257799/hi-blue-i-hope-this-sees-you-well-im-not-sure. 

The King's Landing characters:

Arianne Martell = Morena Baccarin. She was Inara on Firefly. Alternatively, Malaika Arora Khan, best known in the West from the train-dancing scene in Dil Se. 

Elia Sand = Michelle Rodriguez. 

Willas Tyrell = Tom Hiddleston. He's Loki in the Avengers, which seems appropriate here, but he also cleans up to look a bit nerdy, which is how I see Willas. 

Robter Storm = Robert Downey Junior. 

Podrick Payne = Daniel Portman, from the show. One of the few show casts I actually see when I think about the characters (the others are Jaime Lannister and Littlefinger). 

The Scooby Gang:

Ermensande Hayford = A young Jennifer Grey. She has that zany energy that I see for Ermensande.

Lyanna Mormont = Amanda Peet. The girl next door, earthy and cute.

Rickon Stark = A teenage Chris Pratt. Well on the way to being a big guy, nice, good looking, a bit of the clueless teenager about him, but with a good heart.

Sweetrobin = Seth Green circa Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Sharp, mouthy, 90 pounds soaking wet. That up-to-something grin.

The Twins:

Duncan Targaryen = I don't have a fancast I'm completely happy with, but the best I've come up with so far is Kosta Martakis. Very good looking -- came up with the best genes in a very good pool. 

Aelinor Stark = Cate Blanchett from Elizabeth. That shot where she is staring into the camera looking as if she's planning to execute the cameraman for High Treason. But with blond hair.

That's it for now, but I may update if I find more fancasts I like.


End file.
